Later Days
by sulferoid
Summary: LassiterShawn. The pair are on a case involving smuggling, murder, prostitution, and kidnapping. Not a story for the faint of heart. Contains explicit slash, violence, language, and sex.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Later Days (1/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

"Absolutely not."

O'Hara, on her way to evidence, stopped at the volume and tone of Lassiter's voice from across the hall. She could see Lassiter's back, and just over his shoulder were Shawn and Gus, apparently making an excuse for being in the station or something of the like. She surreptitiously opened the only folder in her hands (containing photos of a mailbox that had been repeatedly run over by a two wheeled vehicle) and casually walked into hearing range between the three men. Now only a few feet and one large support beam separated her from her furious superior.

"It's been weeks since we've had a gig Lassy," Shawn's impertinent voice interrupted whatever Lassiter had been saying. "You've been in the station all week. Everyone else is off doing busy cop stuff, and you have done nothing but answer phone calls and create a rut in the tile by pacing back and forth from your desk to Vicks office." He pointed to the floor as if the impression were actually visible. "I know you have something big and I want in."

O'Hara peeked around the beam to see Lassiter with his arms on his hips and Shawn with smile that was most likely sarcastic but trying for sincere. In reality Shawn considered it his cutest saccharine smile that would have all the young pretty things throwing their undergarments at him. Although when he was around Lassiter, it never seemed to come out right. Shawn suspected it had something to do with Lassiter's aura of Angry Puritan or Intolerance to Young Pretty Things.

She heard Lassiter give a defeated sigh. "Well, since it's you? There has been this epidemic of crushed mailboxes lately. All my best men are on it, but we are just so stumped. Please Psychic," Lassiter grabbed Shawn by his shoulders, "help us." Shawn rolled his eyes at the Detectives sarcasm, and Gus pursed his lips to avoid a smile. It was hard for Shawn to hide his disappointment; he was, after all, a young pretty thing. "I sent O'Hara out on the case, she should be far away from here. Go find her." He turned Shawn around and pointed in the opposite direction of where O'Hara actually was.

O'Hara, not being on the case, (actually, no one was. Lassiter sent her to make copies and put the rest in evidence until something new came up. Crushed mailboxes were pretty low on the detective list, even for the wealthiest most paranoid Santa Barbara citizen.) felt a little angry about being used as an excuse to get rid of Shawn and Gus, but remained hidden. She only eavesdropped in the first place because Lassiter was in a murdering mood and Shawn had not been around the station for quite some time. His sudden appearance and Lassiter's foul temperament combined to create something explosive. O'Hara sent some pity Gus's way. Gus's only relief at this point were the currents of cold air from the skitzy air conditioner now being blown on the nervous sweat collecting on the back of his naked skull.

Shawn, not in the mood to be dismissed so easily, clutched his temple and cried out "Boyfriend!" He swung wildly around and grabbed Lassiter by the belt. "Ex! The boyfriend did it. His…his…" Shawn's face grimaced and he tugged harshly at the belt buckle. Lassiters hands gripped Shawn's wrists and tried to wrench them off.

"Let go of me!" If Lassiter were facing O'Hara, she would be surprised to see a flush of color across his usually pale cheeks. Gus gave his friend a warning _Shawn! Stoppit!_ before Shawn abruptly let go.

"It's the ex-boyfriend. He threatens her over the phone to return his inherited belt buckle. Not for its monetary value, but for its sentimental value. His ex is being vindictive and is holding onto it as some form of petty punishment. He used his motorcycle to ram her mailbox; the front should have dents in it and some turf should still be in the tires." Shawn wasn't even breathing hard, unusual for his visions, and Lassiter had a very annoyed look on his face.

O'Hara, smiling, wrote in the margins of the file to check out ex-boyfriend's garage.

"That was awfully prompt and specific for your visions Spencer. Which spirit helped you out this time?"

"The grandfather of course. He just wanted to make sure his lucky belt buckle got back to his grandson." Shawn had solved the case before he even knew the police were involved. She was an attractive client who wanted someone to psychically look into the whereabouts of her French poodle, Brie, and she did point out: "Yes, like the cheese." She of course told him about her mailbox troubles. Shawn did some digging, met the ex, came to a conclusion, and found the poodle, which was in a storm drain just outside her front lawn. The whole point was solving the case, which was easy. The ex said he was vacationing on a fishing boat during the mailbox raid, but it was his visiting brother that was sunburned. Credit card trail led by family, how quaint. Shawn threw in the grandfather spirit bit because who else would leave tacky heirloom belt buckles to their relatives?

"Funny." Lassiter had a smile on his face that turned wicked. "According to the records, he only had a grandmother, and it was through her that he received his inheritance. His grandfather was just a drifter who caught a young lady's eye and took off soon after." After a moments pause Shawn, who was starring at Lassiter, looked away to Gus, who shrugged, and faced Lassiter again. A bull riding, stud clubbing, belt buckle wearing grandma was unexpected.

"Spirits are funny things Lassy. Sexless most of the time, poor things. I was only making an assumption," Shawn countered, sounding serious. "Wait, look, that's not why I'm here," he said, waving his arms to illustrate the point. "I want on this case. I can help." Shawn stepped up into Lassiter's personal space and stage whispered into his ear "Oh Detective, I'll do just about _anything_." Lassiter shoved him away, giving Shawn a strange look for why he was speaking in a heavy southern drawl.

"No," Lassiter replied, poking Shawn in the chest. "I'm serious, I don't want to see you sniffing around Spencer. It's just a routine case that I need no assistance whatsoever. Especially the psychic kind."

Lassiter made for a quick exit, ignoring Shawn's last high-pitched comment, "Detective, how could you possibly say no when I'm offering my beautiful unsullied flower?" A few people milling about raised their heads and watched in mild amusement as Lassiter stormed off.

Gus had to give Shawn a stern look over that one. "Not funny dude. I'm going to be seeing that exchange every time I close my eyes."

"Try to not let it lead to a disorder okay." Shawn leaned over to the left so far that his top half was almost parallel to the ground. "Juliet my sweet, can you please come over here for a moment?"

Silence, for a second, until O'Hara walks out from behind the pole looking only mildly ashamed.

"How did you know I was there?" Shawn rolled his eyes and shrugged, clearly saying _Psychic, Duh_. He really just smelled her Ellen Tracy Classic perfume when the lazy air conditioning kicked in during his spat with Lassiter. Shawn never thought an old girlfriend's weird fragrance would help him out in situations like these.

"Since you're here and not so far far far away as Lassy alluded, I could use some help. What can you tell me about this recent case?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Shawn and Gus questioned in unison.

"Seriously, I'm not in on it either. Carlton got a few calls, went into Vicks office where she yelled at him for a good hour, left, came back, and returned to wait by his phone. That was several days ago. Carlton is just waiting for an important phone call." She cut between them and handed the report to Gus. "Take that to evidence on your way out please. Carlton won't be gone long, and I don't want to be around if he returns and you both are still here." With that O'Hara left, stopping at the end of the hall to buy a soda from the vending machine before presumably exiting the building.

"She's always seemed like an Orange Fanta kinda girl," Gus said fondly, tucking the folder under his arm. Shawn made an agreeing noise, watching O'Hara's departure with peaked interest.

"Lassiter waiting for a phone call of unimaginable importance, Juliet being left out of the loop, and Vicks displeasure with Santa Barbara's finest only solidifies my inkling of something major going down," Shawn whispered, grabbing Gus by the lapels of his suit jacket, wrinkling his melon flesh colored shirt underneath.

"Let go." Gus smoothed down his shirt and gave a pointed stare. "What's with you lately? You said I had to come to the station today and so I called off work," pointing angrily at Shawn's chest he continued, "I was only here to be buffer between you and the Detective!"

"I didn't want you here to be between the good detective and I. That could become all forms of awkward. You're my…" Shawn rolled his wrists, "moral support! Here to watch my back and all other accompanying pieces of me." The pointed look morphed into an annoyed look, which was marginally better.

"Not funny. Don't bring me along next time you decide to up your little courtship with Lassiter. I enjoy it as much as he does."

Shawn shushed loudly, pressing his finger to his lips. The occasional passerby didn't even look their way. "It's not courtship! It's me entertaining myself, like Lassiter would ever take me up on an offer. Look, that is not why we're here today. It's because--"

"Because you were bored," Gus interrupted. "You came here to find a case to fill the time. I know because I called the Shop and they said you quit a week ago. You have no cases, so you seek short-term employment. Your short-term employment has run its course and now it's back to cases." Shawn rolled his eyes, mouthing, "Not true," or something wildly inappropriate like "fuck you." Both were possible.

Deciding that the middle of a hall in a police station was not the best place for such a conversation, Guster took a right toward evidence (He still had an obligation to fulfill). "What's with solving that case anyway? You hardly put on a show for the police. Do you want to be arrested?"

"Man, I'm not even going to get paid for that one."

"Dude." Gus gave him an incredulous look. "Focus please."

"It wasn't a big deal. Some guy just wanted his property back and he had some anger issues."

"It's going to become a big deal if Lassiter finds out you're not a…" Gus paused as a group of uniformed officers passed by. He whispered, "a psychic."

"He's not an idiot, he already knows. He just can't prove it." Shawn graciously opened the door to evidence. The polite gesture was ruined when he stuck his foot out and Gus almost fell on his face. "Anything else you want to lecture me about?" Shawn asked while giving his best shit-eating grin.

"Actually, yes." Gus counted off using his finger: "Stop calling me from work, leave Lassiter alone, vacuum up your chip crumbs you left all over my floor, and get out of here. There are no murders, crimes, or cases that need to be solved. Things are quiet for once and lets just enjoy it." Leaving the file with the clerk at the evidence desk, Gus went straight for the exit sign, dialing his office with his cell phone.

Shawn shouted to his retreating figure, "That's advice! Not a lecture!" He had every intention of leaving the station after that, but Gus was only half right when he said Shawn was bored and only looking for something to do. He did have a feeling that something big was going to happen. His only evidence was Carlton's reluctance to tell Shawn anything. That was actually pretty normal, as Carlton will go to extreme lengths to keep him away from all of his cases, but for some reason it seemed like the Head Detective was trying too hard. Threats and yelling about how it was cop business and a psychic was not needed were there, but today they were just a formality. It could be touching in its own screwed up way. When Carlton was in Shawn's face, stressed and tired, he sounded genuinely serious when he told him to stay away. It would be in everyones best interest for Shawn to just go home and watch Animal Planet, but he was not someone known for doing 'best interest things.'

Lassiter, after looking behind his desk, around the corner, and down three different hallways, did he relax. He had already drunk his weight in sweetened coffee today and was not looking forward to seeing Spencer's face every time he returned from the bathroom. He was irritable from staying inside all day waiting by his damn phone.

After Vick's disagreement about how this situation should be handled, Lassiter was not up to enforcing his decision onto his partner or any other fellow comrades. This was Lassiter's job and his job alone. His phone rang shrilly as soon as he sat down on his swivel chair. His hand hovered above the cheap black plastic for several more rings before he picked it up and answered with a gruff "Lassiter."

"It's done. You're going meet Simon tonight at Port Barrington."

"Wait, I need to know--"

"Don't be late," the voice interrupted, followed by a click.

"Dammit!" Lassiter shouted, hanging up with more force than necessary. Port Barrington was a bar that was clean, stocked, and served the best steak and fries this side of the state; it also had the luxury of being four hours away from the station. Lassiter grabbed his jacket that was casually slung over the back of his chair and stormed off.

* * *

After a wonderfully unnecessary four-hour drive, the sun was sinking and the evening gloom had settled over the highway bar. Parking perfectly straight in a crooked lane, Lassiter straightened his jacket and surreptitiously felt his gun and holsters. He glared into the surrounding wooded area, already hating the direction this meeting was taking.

He had been to this particular bar twice in his life. Both times with his wife, who felt it appropriate to stop by when leaving to visit family. He's had little reason to return until now. Walking through the nostalgic western swinging doors, Lassiter scoped the place. Bartender behind the counter wiping fogged glasses, two men in a corner booth pouring over a beat up journal and several newspapers, the younger looking one typing away on a small white decaled laptop, and one patron nursing a drink on one of the many empty bar stools.

Lassiter sat down on a stool and motioned for a drink. A beer was placed in front of him, so cold that condensation was collecting and sweating off the bottle. The man a few stools down grabbed his drink and moved to sit next to the detective.

"Simon I presume," Lassiter said, uncapping his bottle and taking a lazy drink from it.

"In the flesh." Simon's cloudy amber drink rippled as he took sips from it. "So what are you going to offer in exchange? I happen to know about you detective, and you know many people who would greatly appreciate it if you helped them out." Simon turned to face Lassiter, an obnoxious grin plastered on his face, "Carlton."

"First, you don't call me Carlton," Lassiter had grown somewhat fond (secretly of course) of Shawn's obnoxious grin, but Simon had none of the traits that Shawn possessed, mainly good natured humor behind it. Simons smirk was just an asshole smirk. Shawn's smirk said something behind the lines of "I'm going to make trouble, and it's going to be great." Lassiter found it weird he was even comparing the two.

"Second, I am not going to do anything for you or your people." The affronted look on Simons face almost made up for the whole week of doing nothing but waiting by his phone. "You see, I know what you're doing and it's not going to work. Calling me at the station, dangling tasty bits of information in front of my face, making me wait by my phone," He paused as he took another gulp from his beer, "and lets not forget making me drive for several hours to a bar in the middle of nowhere. That one is my favorite, by the way." Simon said nothing, but had sweat lines in the crevices on his forehead to complement his frown.

"You are trying to put me off, pander me along, lead me on a leash like a little inbred cocker spaniel, take your pick. You try to make me think that I need your trashy little backstabbing info so bad that I'm willing to do anything for it." Lassiter exhaled loudly and pointed his finger while still clutching his beer bottle, "You. Called. Me. You," a jab with his index into Simons chest "a member of some family, a prince among low-class penny-lifters, a coadjutant of crime, whatever, call the Head Detective to rat out some fellow members so the police can kindly and safely remove them and your competitors." Lassiter leaned in so he was uncomfortably close and talked softly. "I can walk away right now and I won't think twice about it."

The Detectives intimidating manner abruptly changed. He smiled (It was scary) and clapped Simon on the back. "So you can tell me what you know and I decide if it is worth my time to bring them down, or you can say nothing, pay for my drink, and I'll leave, no harm no foul. Turning on your companions to capture your foe is tough business."

Simon, realizing his mouth was open, snapped it with a clack. "I really didn't think any of the cops around here actually knew what they were doing," He said sorely, shooting down the rest of his drink and grimacing. "Fine. We'll talk business. I can give you enough to bring down Teleski, Mount, and Susanna, but you have to go in and take Blaine yourself, I could never touch the guy. I can get you an audience with him, and help build some trust, but other than that you're on your own."

"I want Connie. He slipped out of jail last year because his lawyer threw out the only evidence we had." Poisoned fruit falling from poisoned trees can be such a bitch.

Simon ordered a refill when the barkeep made his way toward them, and waiting till he was out of earshot before answering with a resounding "No." Lassiter stood and took half a step toward the door before Simon grabbed him and pulled him back onto his stool. "Fine, okay!"

"And Kass," Lassiter demanded. Simon's forehead scrunched and some sweat dripped over an eyebrow, making him flinch. He was already blinking his beady little eyes out, Lassiter thought the sweat might help lubricate them so he could stop looking like a blinking nervous twit.

"Kass would kill me and everyone he even suspected. There would be blood in the streets!" His tone became pleading, "Not Kass. I'll get you everyone else. Take it or leave it." Lassiter suspected that if he tried to leave again Simon would reconsider. It was almost unnerving how desperate he was to get rid of Blaine. He must be putting some real stress on Simon's business, smuggling or whatever illegal activity he was doing. Lassiter thought it over while Simon gulped his drink. Whatever illusion Simon had that he was in charge of this conversation disappeared with every murky shot. He was drinking nervously. Lassiter calmly mulled his beer while he made his decision.

"Fine. Call Karen Vick and spill your little guts out, then set me up with Blaine. If everything goes according to plan, they all get arrested at the same time and never know the wiser. You can keep on doing whatever the hell it is that you do."

Simon let out a relieved breath and promised to contact the detective soon. He left money on the counter (enough to cover Lassiter's tab as well) and put on his hat.

"Oh, one more thing," Lassiter grabbed Simons arm to halt his departure, "Do tell your employer to stay out of police business after this, because I will be taking names the next time we cross paths, okay? I am not stupid enough to believe you set this all up, and I'm not inclined to doing you anymore favors."

Simon swallowed, his fat adams apple bobbing, and left quickly, the doors clapping together loudly in the quiet bar. Untying his tie and opening his shirt at the collar, Lassiter took a breath. Collaborating with organized criminals to bring down opposing under-bosses was extremely risky business. He knew Vick gave very good advice when she was screaming in his face about the dangers of what he was thinking of doing. It was dangerous, stupid, and had little chance of success without some bloodshed, but Lassiter's inner cop would not allow such an opportunity to bring down untouchables to go to waste. Protocol and multiple partners would just muck things up, so going solo was the only way for the sting to work.

Speaking of unforeseen dangers, Lassiter pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. He didn't hold the phone to his ear. He just dialed a number and held it against his knee. No sooner did he lower his phone than a happy little diddy began playing behind the bar counter. It was a midi version of "I'm Blue" followed by a thump and a curse.

"Spencer," Lassiter called.

"Lassyface," Shawn replied, sheepishly peeking over the counter and rubbing where he bumped his head. "How long did you know I was there?"

"The whole time. Honestly Spencer, parking your bike behind bushes?"

Shawn grinned. "I didn't think you would notice it. I'm flattered."

"Tire tracks you idiot. The only bikers who drive this stretch of road are Hells Angles, and they never ride alone. One set of tracks into dense woodland is a mite suspicious."

Shawn vaulted over the counter, ignoring the little hinged countertop exit. "How much did you pay the barkeep?"

"Coke, John," Shawn ordered before turning to Lassiter. "Nothing, I use to haul slate for John here a few years back when he worked construction. Said I could spy for free." His drink was set before him, and Lassiter made no comment about the tiny umbrella hanging on the rim. "So about this big case you said wasn't happening, are you going to not tell me about it?" Shawn scooted his stool closer so his knees were touching the detectives. Lassiter glared at the intrusion but did not move.

"The only reason I didn't kick you out first thing was because the snitch would've run if he knew he was being tailed."

"How polite of you."

"Shut up."

"Make me," sticking out his tongue would be immature, so Shawn twirled his umbrella instead. "Since you won't tell me anything, I'll just have to psychically glean it from you." He shook his hands and tried to place them on Lassiter's head.

"Touch me and you lose a thumb." It was a weak threat, and Lassiter had been having a very trying day. He gulped the last few dregs of his beer and stood to leave.

"You aren't even going to stay and listen to my compliments about you?" Lassiter stopped at the doors, one hand holding it open. He looked over his shoulder with an impatient nod of the head. "That was pretty smooth back there Lassy, didn't know you had it in you." Shawn shouted to him as he left "You should have been a lawyer. Could have made more money!" He waited until he heard Lassiter's car start up and drive away. He whipped around on his stool and drank his Coke in a sullen silence. It did not go as well as he thought it would.

* * *

Continued... 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Later Days (2/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

Gus rolled over and answered the shrill ringing next to his dresser, garbling out a confused, "Wha?"

"Gus, what are doing?"

"I'm on the beach with Halle Berry and a Bahama Mama. What the hell do you think I'm doing Shawn! It's three in the morning," Gus grumbled, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Really, uh… wow, I guess it is. Look, I need you to hear this."

"No, I don't. Whatever it is, it can wait till morning. Goodnight Shawn." Ignoring the protesting "Wait, wait!" over the phone, Gus hung up and threw the phone in the vicinity of his bathroom. A few seconds later he heard it chirping repeatedly. Covering his head with a pillow, he fell back asleep.

Gus woke up at 3:38am. Not of his own accord of course, but because there was a rhythmic knocking at his door. Already expecting an annoying best friend, he doesn't bother to put on his cream colored robe. Answering the door sporting only his purple shorts, the greeting he got was not surprising.

"Dude. Gross."

"What do you want," Gus asked, holding the door open while Shawn snuck in.

"Absolutely nothing until you put some clothes on. Are," Shawn squinted in the semi darkness, "are those Calvin Klein?"

"Seriously, what do you want?" Refusing to answer Shawn's question (He was right) Gus put on a pair of slacks and a large black shirt with "Ironmaiden" written on it. It was an old present from relatives and Gus never got around to getting rid of it. Shawn gave it an appreciative smile.

"I've got to tell you what happened today!"

"Yesterday. What happened _yesterday_," Gus said, helpfully reminding Shawn of the time.

"Yes, yes, anyway," Shawn took a deep breath to quell his excitement, "I found out about Lassiter's case!"

"Oh my god, how did you do it," Gus said in a bored monotone voice.

"A highly illegal phone tap," Shawn continued as Gus's eyes widened in surprise, "Don't complain, I removed it."

"Shawn! You want the Feds on your ass?"

"I believe I said don't complain. Look, I beat Lassiter to his secret meeting and here is what went down." After a thorough retelling of the conversation between Lassiter and Simon, even including what drinks were consumed (Simon's was a Derek Birch both times, and Lassiter's was a Coors) Gus sat down on his living room chair.

"What do you know about those people Simons giving up?"

Shawn rubbed his palms together. "This is where it gets really good: Teleski, Mount, and Susanna are all high runners in underground smuggling rings. All of them have been pulled in by the police for one thing or another, but the system can never prosecute. Connie too. His team of lawyers keeps him out of prison and his legit businesses away from his illegal ones. If this Simon character is telling the truth and can give Lassiter enough to bring these people down, it would be the largest smuggling bust this side of the country!"

Gus looked anything other than excited. "I don't like this. These sound like pretty dangerous people Shawn."

"That is exactly my point. Think about it, us, helping the Head Detective pull in these hardened criminals and making the world a safer place." Shawn obviously wasn't taking this as seriously as Gus was. "I'll be careful," Shawn promised, his eyes watering and lip pouting.

"No you won't," Gus scolded. "Lassiter already has everything under control."

"Ah ah," Shawn waved his finger, "Lassiter has four criminals in the bag with one on the loose. I can help take out Blaine." Gus rubbed his temples where he could feel a headache forming. His headache was screaming 'He's your best friend. Yours, yours, yours.' All the people in the world to befriend, and Gus chose the one who delights in pissing powerful people off.

"You promise to only collect information on this shady character, and will leave immediately if it gets too dangerous?" Gus halted him before he can promise, "and stay out of Lassiter's way so he can do his job?" Shawn nodded enthusiastically. "And when this is all over, you will never ever come to my place again before six am?"

"Scouts honor."

The two stared each other down before hitting knuckles. "Fine," Gus said, and opened the door to his bedroom. He turned around when he heard his cabinet hinges squeaking open. "What are you doing?"

Shawn had a bowl and a box of Cheerios. "Breakfast. What does it look like?"

He soon found himself locked outside of Gus's apartment, bowl and cereal still in hand. "Not very nice," he shouted through the door. "You could have at least left some milk!"

As funny as it was to wake up his friend early in the morning, it did have a purpose. Shawn always came off as a Do It Even Though You Might Get In Over Your Head kinda guy, and he liked that persona about himself. This case had him a little bit worried after doing some digging on Blaine (reading locked and private police files). Successful, wealthy, the works, but also intelligent, cunning, and ruthless. He was a serious player in underworld politics, and if he pulled the right strings, he could make Shawn's life, and everyone Shawn has ever been in contact with, hell. He meant it when he said he was going to be careful. Letting Gus in on the scoop and getting his opinion meant something to Shawn, and he was glad he did it.

* * *

Thomas Blaine was not a hard man to find. Owner of a ridiculously successful trading company, he was in the papers time to time. Also, super conveniently for Shawn, he had an article on wikipedia that explained where his top business fellows worked. Blaine's right hand man was mentioned, but of course downplayed as secretary and financial bookkeeper. Shawn had an easier time sneaking into the main office building than getting into a Gwen Stephanie concert. Convincing the maintenance that he was the new guy (Stolen uniform with the nametag Doug), he got access onto the higher floors. Picking one lock got him into Mr. Secretary/right hand man's office, and one glance at his itinerary got him Mr. Blaine's schedule for the week. The whole process took forty minutes and forty-six dollars (Taxi ride and lunch afterwards).

Shawn, reclining in a leather chair with his feet propped up on an ash cherrywood desk, fiddled with his binoculars. He was on the 14th floor in the executive building of G. Richard's Law Office. The only importance of this building to Shawn was that it is straight across from Zia's Trattoria restaurant and Hotel, also located on the 14th floor. According to Blaine's schedule, he should be in the restaurant six o'clock sharp for dinner with an important colleague, or so Shawn assumes. The itinerary said dinner with Swan, and he was pretty sure it didn't mean the bird. He checked his watch. He had less than an hour till Blain was due. A knock at the door distracted Shawn from his musing about swans, and he jumped to his feet, dropping the binoculars into a plastic lunchbox.

"Excuse me sir, but have you found the source of the smell yet?" A short bald headed man asked, timidly opening the door and peeking his skull in. His name badge said "Gary, Assistant Manager."

"I'm afraid it may be a gas leak Gary. So…I'm going to need you to clear the premise while I find the source. I'm pretty sure it's coming from this room." Shawn patted his jumpsuit and authentic looking Citywide badge.

"Oh, of course, yes."

Shawn threw him a small walkie-talkie. "I'll call you when it's clear." The man fumbled it, picked it up and left quietly. Shawn had no intention of calling Gary; the thing didn't even have batteries in it. He would be gone and the smell would dissipate on its own. It couldn't have been easier.

Several hours after getting Blaine's schedule, Shawn was scoping for places he could safely observe. Entering the restaurant was off limits because he didn't want Blaine or anyone else to know he was there. Plotting along outside the hotel, the neighboring building caught Shawn's eye.

An old truck was parked out front, 'Al's Mechanical repair' painted on the side. The man exiting the truck had a utility belt around his waist with wires, glue, tools, and two bottles of Raid. He watched the man enter the building and take the elevator up. The people milling around the bottom floor all had miniature fans or makeshift ones. Shawn wondered what is a man going to need Raid bottles for when fixing the internal cooler system. He crossed the street for a better look. A glance in the truck's bed revealed several empty bottles of Raid and insecticide. A man with Entomophobia, choosing a career where he was constantly in small tight places crawling with bugs, should have thought twice about it.

It was perfect. The guy would fix the vents while filling them with nasty fumes. The air ducks would be turned on when he was done, and slowly the building would fill with a nasty odor. Shawn figured he had a few hours to get some essentials.

The floor manager greeted Shawn at the doors with a polite, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I received a call about a bad smell. Said it was important." The manager looked confused. Shawn gave his best 'I'm a busy man with many other things to do' look.

"I never heard such a complaint."

"Well I sure did. Said the smell started after the vents were turned on. Don't you smell that?" For a moment he was worried he came to early and the Raid hadn't had the time to circulate through the building, but a distinct toxic odor began to blow in with the cooling breeze.

"Actually, now that you mention it, I do smell it now." He leaned in close to Shawn and almost whispered, "Is that…is it a gas leak? Should I be worried?"

"Not sure, but just as a precaution, I'm going to have to have a look around." At the suspicious glance the manager gave him, Shawn broke into a grin. "Don't worry, Citywide will pay for any and all damages to gas pipes, it's company policy." He flashed the manager his badge (made at Kinko's) and smoothed his jumpsuit (altered version of his first stolen jumpsuit, even kept the nametag Doug on it). With people coughing and leaving the floor, the manager pointed in the direction of the elevators. Shawn took a straight shot to floor 14, holding his lunch box close.

* * *

"There you are, you ugly bastard," Shawn mumbled to himself, binoculars held so close to the window they were pressing the panes. Across the street in the other building, a wide pavilion was visible through the glass. Tables dotted across the whole floor with waiters scattered amongst them. A beautifully sculpted ice woman held lilies in the palms of her hand and melted slowly into a bowl on a wide table covered in desserts. Decadence oozed from the buffet table, and Shawn reminded himself why hiding in the smelly building was safer and smarter.

Despite what he said earlier, Blaine was not a bastard (in the traditional sense), nor was he ugly. In fact he was pretty attractive. If Shawn were into purebred, high class, model good looks instead of overworked, intimidating, grumpy Irishmen looks he would be oogling into his binoculars. Blaine was in a nice suit, and his associate, Mr. Swan, could fence his whole ensemble and swim in the profits.

Something about Swan's face stuck in Shawn's head. He was never one to forget a face. He focused his (actually, Henry's) super 8-24x25 zoom binoculars to Swan, looking for anything distinguishing. He was blond, older in the way all men wish they would age, and used whitening strips. If Shawn could not identify him now, then he must have seen him years and years ago. He thought back to every criminal face he ever saw on television or paper.

Three days after Shawn's sixth birthday, a news report was on channel 13 about an arrest of a man trafficking young men and women for prostitution and trade. He had a different name, and looked much worse off than he did now. It appeared that Mr. Swan got out of prison and a makeover, but Shawn doubted he gave up his profit making ways. There were only a few reasons Blaine would be friends with someone like Swan. As horrible as it was, it was good news for Shawn. He could now give Lassiter some useful information and a way into Blaine's business.

Swan laughed at something Blaine said, and then reached into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. Rolling out some photos like a proud father, Swan pointed to each of the pictures and told Blaine about them. Shawn didn't have to hear them to know what they were discussing. Each of the photos was a headshot of a young man, and it wasn't some story about Caleb at boys camp, it was a business deal. Shawn watched the two for the rest of the meal. Blaine ordered lamb, Swan the peking duck, (Shawn could tell that he wanted to order the Cacciucco instead, but decided against it) and when the dessert menu was placed on their table he decided to leave. He wasn't going to get anything else from them, and he really didn't want to watch two old friends discussing who was going to be brought into their hotel rooms that night.

* * *

Lassiter was lazing about in his newly furnished house. The moving fiasco turned up in is favor because he didn't loose any money in his quick sale and found a moderate sized place with a deck. He had to leave the station because Vick was furious he struck a bargain with known criminals and ignored her advice about dropping the whole thing and simply arresting the little thug. He knew Vick was more concerned about his safety than any stigma associated with dealings of the underworld kind. Lassiter felt bad about it, but it was the only way to put some of those people behind bars, and he has always put the citizens well being over his own.

He's pushed out the door after Vick got the call from Simon, and faxes began to pour through. She promised she would call if something wasn't right with the information or if it was useless. Karen Vick would never say it out loud, but she secretly wished the information was sour. If it would stop her best detective from putting himself in a very dangerous situation, she would rather have those greedy people on the streets any day. Bringing in some greedy scum was not worth loosing one of her own. There would always be criminals, but only one Carlton Lassiter.

It was late in the evening and Lassiter had yet to set up his new television. His bookshelves, computer, and file cabinets had come first; everything else was unpacked at his leisure. He already read the files on the four under bosses Simon promised to bring in, and was waiting impatiently for further instructions. He could do nothing until he knew where he was meeting Blaine and what they were going to discuss. He figured Simon would introduce him as a crooked cop trying to climb the political ladder, or maybe as a fence, handler, or money launderer. The point being that until he knew, he couldn't prepare for it. He sat on his fat leather couch with his tie off and shirt unbuttoned and flipped through American Handgunner without reading it.

His doorbell rang, but he ignored it. If someone needed to contact him from work they would call his cell phone, and it was on and charged. It rang again and was followed by loud obtrusive knocks. He gruffly got up and grabbed his gun that was sitting on the kitchen counter. Putting the safety on, he tucked it into the back of his slacks. Maybe a little paranoid, but better safe than sorry. Lassiter opened the door and immediately groaned. Shawn Spencer on his doorstep was the last person he expected, and frankly, on the bottom of the List Of People Carlton Never Wants To See On His Doorstep (although Saddam was a close second).

"Spencer," Lassiter greeted.

"Lassy, uh, Lassiter. Can I come in?" Shawn hoisted up a 12 pack, bribery most likely. Lassiter stepped back and held the door open. Shawn grinned and entered, checking out the décor. "Nice place. It's very—uh, sophisticated." He set the beer on the counter and took note of where every exit was and what kinds of weapons were lying about. Being paranoid was not a crime.

"What do you want Spencer?"

"Have you been drinking?" Shawn asked unexpectedly.

"What? No!"

"Damn, this would be so much easier if you had." Shawn sucked air through his teeth, expanding his chest. "Well, I had this vision today."

"Out," Lassiter said, motioning toward the door.

"Just hear me out. It's about Thomas Blaine," Shawn pleaded. Lassiter leaned against the counter, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Fine, I'll bite. What did your vision tell you?"

"Well," Shawn swallowed nervously, which was something that he Does Not Do. He rehearsed what was going to happen again and again in his head, but with Lassiter standing there it was a bit hard to get out. For this to work, Lassiter was going to have to play along. The options were: succeed and hopefully not get shot, or fail, and hopefully Lassiter does not get shot. "I can't tell you. I have to show you."

Lassiter cocked an eyebrow while still looking menacing. "Show me? What, are you in the seventh grade?"

"Here, I'm going to channel Blaine for a moment." Shawn closed his eyes while Lassiter rolled his.

"We're not at the station, you don't have to pull this shit with me," He remarked, folding his arms over his chest. Shawn shushed him and went back to concentrating. He was really just building courage, but that takes concentration too. Lassiter made a show of looking at his watch, but Shawn's eyes were shut. He walked directly up to Lassiter, thinking: 'kitchen chair four paces to the left, table angled, six steps to the counter,' and wrapped his arms around Lassiter's neck.

He opened his eyes before he pressed his lips to the detectives so he doesn't miss or ram his nose and completely screw this up. They are chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip. Lassiter's mouth was closed; the arms that were folded across his chest were now hovering in the air like he doesn't know what to do with them. Lassiter finally overcame his initial shock that Shawn Spencer was kissing him. _Kissing him!_ and dropped his hands to put pressure on Shawn's shoulders.

Lassiter opened his mouth to object, yell, demand an explanation, vomit, or anything other that mutely take this from the fake psychic, but Shawn held tighter and swiped his tongue inside briefly to count Lassiter's front bottom teeth. Shawn pulled away slowly. The whole ordeal lasted only a few seconds, but took years off the detective's life.

Shawn spoke first with a weak "didn't know Blaine had it in em'. The scoundrel." Lassiter looked at him like he had gone crazy. He took a step back so he was no longer pinning the detective against his own kitchen counter.

Lassiter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before saying, very quiet and calmly, "Spencer, what the hell was that?" His irises stayed fully incased in white, but his pupils began to shrink back to their normal size.

"Me showing you that Blaine has found alternative ways to sex."

Lassiter was not in a laughing mood. "I don't know what you're trying to pull—" he began, and Shawn had to clamp his mouth shut before he quipped, "I'm not pulling anything. _Yet_," and got himself slowly and painfully murdered on Lassiter's pristine kitchen floor. "—but this is not a joke. This is _serious_." Anger was filling Lassiter, and that was the last thing Shawn needed or wanted to deal with.

"I know. Just…listen for a second; this is your way in. Blaine is bisexual; you're an attractive, probable, and possible businessmen. You can use this to your advantage."

Lassiter's jaw clenched as he thought about it. "It's dangerous to play the part of corrupted cop, and it's even more dangerous, not to mention stupid," he gave a pointed stare in Spencers direction, "to play the part of sexually interested corrupted cop. But—" he hesitated, giving Shawn a look over, "you're right. It'd be worth it. It would open doors for me."

Shawn mentally high fived himself and gave Gus some skin (In his office many miles away, Gus, reaching for a glass across the desk, wondered briefly why his outstretched hand became a fist).

"Spencer, that was…uh, adequate," he said awkwardly. Shawn thought for a delirious second that he meant the kiss, but he was talking about the detective work.

"Your welcome?"

"If that was all you needed to tell me…" Lassiter doesn't finish, he just pointed in the direction of the front door.

"Wait, what? You're serious," Shawn asked in general confusion.

"That's the reason you came here isn't it? Unless you have more helpful information to give me, then you can go."

Shawn shook his head no. "That's not what I meant. You're going to go hit on a man, a man whom I might add has tapped more boy ass than the proctology ward, with no rudimentary knowledge on how to even kiss another dude."

"I know how to kiss, Spencer," he huffed, but his cheeks redden anyway. He walked out from his kitchen into the open space of his living room.

"I said you don't know how to kiss another dude. There is in fact, a big difference." Shawn casually followed the detective, choosing to sit on the new leather seat. "Blaine's going to see right through you."

"I know how to go undercover. I've done it before," he explained, like he's talking to a child. Shawn gave him a disbelieving quirk of the eyebrows. He stood up and walked over to face Lassiter head on. Before a staredown could commence, Shawn pushed the detective high on the chest hard enough that he was forced to fall onto the long couch behind him. He tried to stand up and protest, but Shawn straddled and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Shawn was happy that Lassiter didn't pull away, but he didn't participate either. Lassiter stayed sprawled on the couch, like a warm, breathing, frustrated, throw pillow. Shawn pulled his mouth away in anger. "This is why you're going to get yourself killed. How can you convincingly kiss a total scumbag but not me!? I thought that after all the time we—" Carlton shut him up by sealing his mouth over Shawn's. He balanced himself with one arm sinking into the soft cushions by Lassiter's head, and his other hand going up to cup Lassiter jaw. Lassiter's arm went under Shawn's and around to his back, anchoring him in place.

Teeth clacked once or twice until they got the rhythm right. Lassiter slipping his tongue in deep when Shawn exhaled. He was just the right amount of pushy and demanding that Shawn didn't even bother hiding his appreciative groan. It was hot, wet, and every bit illicit as he had ever daydreamed. Lassiter was proving his point, and he was proving it _good_. He nipped at Shawn's bottom lip, tugged on his jean clad hips to bring him closer, and shared the taste of exhausted coffee drinking cop.

Shawn was beginning to wonder if spontaneous sex was on the table. With how well things were going, it was looking quite plausible. Shawn's mouth was being plundered, and Lassiter sure was taking his time to map it out. He knew he was pushing his luck already, but figured, _what the hell_, and left Lassiter's mouth to plant an open mouthed kiss on his throat, scrapping teeth lightly against moist skin. His fingertips just barely grazed Lassiter's chest before warm hands halted them.

"My gun," Lassiter groaned. Shawn felt his flesh heat up and hoped the room was dark enough to hide how ridiculously sexy that sounded. Assured that he was getting lucky, Shawn leaned forward to attack Lassiter's throat again. Lassiter winced, and reached behind him to pull out a short barreled gun from the back of his pants that was probably digging painfully into his spine. He set it on the side table with a muffled clunk. Shawn, still straddling the detective, felt his face flush again, but this time with embarrassment. He assumed Lassiter was alluding to his genitalia. He clamored off and stood awkwardly in the semi-darkness of Lassiter's living room trying to quiet his breathing and get his blood to collect in the head with a brain.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "I guess you were right," referring to the earlier conversation about the detective being unable to pretend.

"Yeah. Yeah, it shouldn't be problem," Lassiter agreed, looking at anything besides Shawn. The room had so much awkward in the air, Shawn was surprised they weren't drowning in it. "It's…uh, late."

"Oh, yeah. I'll just go," Shawn says, reprimanding himself the second it left his mouth. "I got a busy day tomorrow. I'll see you later then." He let himself out, giving a disappointed sigh and leaning against the shut door. "Almost had him."

Lassiter sighed in confused relief and locked the door behind him.

It said a great deal about the two men by their reactions once they are alone. Shawn took a long hot enjoyable shower. Lassiter took a short frigid one and slept fitfully.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Later Days (3/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Beta: VZG

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

Gus slammed the door in his face.

"Gus, you let me in this instant!" Shawn screamed, pounding on the door. Gus was inside, plugging his ears and chanting, 'I'm not listening!' over and over again.

"Burton Guster, if you do not let me in this second I'm going to blog that video I have of you on your second date with that chick from art class," he threatened. There was silence in the apartment. "Youtube even. Youtube for the world to enjoy!" It was a low blow but it worked. The apartment door swung open and revealed an angry underdressed black man.

"Thanks man. Coffee?" Shawn asked, holding a brown paper sack of bagels. Gus didn't reply, he just grabbed his robe from a hook and resigned himself to another early morning.

"Do you sleep, like, ever?"

Shawn turned his attentions away from the coffee maker to smirk.

"Do you at least have a valid reason for being here?"

"Actually," Shawn began, spreading butter on the toast he was making while the coffee dripped, "I need you to come to the station with me today."

Gus gave him a dirty look, but accepted the cup of coffee and plate of toast that was offered. "Why?"

"Cause I made out with Lassiter." Gus sent a geyser of coffee all over his rug. "Dude!" Shawn yelled, bunching up paper towels and mopping up the mess. Gus wiped his mouth and abandoned his drink.

"You had sex with Lassiter!"

"No! No, we just kissed. It was a totally hot-blooded tonsil hockey makeout session, not sex," Shawn looked pleased, like he just announced he was the newest member of Americas Next Top Model, instead of "I have just destroyed the best thing to ever happen to us."

"Shawn," Gus said, rubbing his face and pulling down his cheeks to give his eyes a ghastly appearance, "We'll have to move. I'll have to quit, pack up, cancel appointments, contact the bank, call the—"

"No, we're not," Shawn assured. "It's a progressive step between Lassiter and I. All part of the plan."

Gus severely doubted it was planned at all. It must have shown on his face because Shawn used his "reassuring" voice. The voice he uses when telling Gus what a good idea it is and how _nothing_ could go wrong. Something always managed to go wrong.

"I put up with a lot from you Shawn. Your fear of commitment, your need to be "free," hell, I even put up with finding your odd bedfellows in the morning when we share rent."

Shawn looked affronted. "When have my bedfellows ever been odd?"

"Remember the lumberjack?" Gus folded his arms while Shawn scratched his styled hair in embarrassment.

"He was very athletic."

"That skinny redheaded woman who wanted to be on America's Got Talent?"

"She was talented! That thing she did with her joints was amazing!" Shawn's protests were weak, and Gus looked disappointed. "I'm not going to mess this up," he said seriously.

"You're going to get arrested, or worse. I say we cut and run while we have a chance."

Shawn perked up at that. "That's what I usually say. I'm going to see this through." Gus looked surprised. "For once."

He watched his friend think it over, and when his shoulders sagged and he shook his head, Shawn knew he had him convinced. "You sure Lassiter isn't going to throw you out?"

"Positive."

* * *

"OUT!" Lassiter yelled, standing over his desk with one hand holding a phone and the other typing away on the white large keypad of his computer. Shawn hadn't even opened his mouth.

"I think the detective has a point," Gus stressed in his ear, pulling on his shirt.

"Not yet." Shawn hissed back. Lassiter hung up with such force the phone cracked into two dangling pieces. Everyone else in the area had much better, safer things to do and cleared out, stranding Shawn and Gus with the detective. "Having problems?" Shawn questioned innocently.

If looks could kill, Shawn would be stung up by his entrails with wild dogs circling underneath. "I do not have the time nor patience to deal with you right now Spencer." Lassiter fussed with his clothing because his tie was too tight and his shirt was pressed to starchy perfection. Shawn was distracted from the potentially deadly threat by how good the detective looked. His whole suit was new, and it all looked very expensive. He must be going to meet Blaine in some swanky place. Lassiter was even wearing a Rolex, a real one.

"Car troubles?"

Lassiter immediately became suspicious. "Yes, in fact. I was going to have Luke be my escort and valet, but he's missing. Now I have to find a replacement undercover intelligence officer. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Gus managed to not whip around in shock and scream at Shawn, he instead discreetly glared out of the corner of his eye. Shawn looked relaxed and easily replied "Nope, sounds like a bummer." He did, in fact, have everything to do with Luke's disappearance. The only way Shawn was able to be up and about early in the morning was for him to never go to sleep. Gus should have known that Shawn was out all night wreaking havoc.

The detective narrowed his eyes, comparing Gus's guilty look to Shawn's nonchalant one. "Whatever you did Spencer, undo it. Now."

"Hey, you don't know it was me. Maybe the guy**'**s just running late." Luke was on time; he was just going in the wrong direction carrying the wrong passenger. A trained officer should know better to double check changed orders, especially when done over the phone. Secured phone lines always have the possibility of being hacked by scheming attractive psychics.

"I know it was you. Fix it. Now." Lassiter was looking incredibly angry and incredibly sexy, creating such a dilemma for Shawn. He towered over them both, his fists clenching and teeth grinding "If you don't, then I'll just have to string you up by your little—"

"Carlton!"

Gus, Shawn, and Lassiter all turned to the direction of the voice. O'Hara was approaching and gaining ground fast, her nice slim heels making a sharp _click, click, click _sound. She was positively livid, anger radiating off of her in waves. All three men swallowed audibly.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me. I can't believe. You"she pointed a perfectly manicured nail at Lassiter's face, "did not tell me! Did you think I wouldn't find out? Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective, Worlds Biggest Ass, such a knight that he doesn't tell his _partner_ about his suicidal mission. Karen Vick told me, but not before I found the faxes. Mount! Connie! _Thomas Blaine_! These people aren't in jail for a reason. You're going to get yourself killed playing the Lone Ranger." Her cheeks still blazing, she took a deep breath. "Someone is going to get shot; at least have the courtesy to share the bullets."

Lassiter's mouth was open, and Shawn ever so politely reached over and pushed his chin up, closing his mouth for him. For some unknown reason, Gus was smiling, and Shawn swelled with pride. O'Hara was all grown up, becoming a tough woman who would kick your ass and then make you clean the scuffs from her shoes.

Lassiter blinked several times, like he was unable to even process the fact O'Hara was screaming in his face. He frowned, and his shock was replaced with anger. "I didn't tell you so this exact thing would not happen. I don't want you to come along. This is a one-man operation and I don't want to be watching your back the whole time. Same with you," he said, looking at Shawn, "and although it's unlikely, you too." Looking at Gus. Gus snorted and frowned, although Lassiter was probably right.

O'Hara, still being a creature of fiery fury, went right back into it with Carlton, screaming about how she has a responsibility to her partner, and it was her job to look after him as well. Just when Shawn thought it was going to escalate to physical violence, the chief's door slammed open, sending any loose papers flying in all directions. If a dragon had come stumbling out its lair vomiting fire and covered in sequins, it would have had the same effect.

Karen Vick stalked out of her office. She looked haggard, tired, and ready to eat people who even breathed loudly in her direction. Her voice was calm in a scary way, like the ocean before a wild destructive typhoon. "Why is everyone yelling when you are all standing so close?" The group of four immediately took several steps backward, distancing themselves. She approached; the silence of the room (everyone else in the vicinity had wisely taken their lunch breaks) enhanced the sound of hearts throbbing in their calcium cages.

"I have not slept for over 48 hours, have not seen my baby for even longer, and have not had a decent cup of coffee since I came to work." She turned to face Lassiter, who was fighting the urge to loosen his strangling tie. "What is your problem?"

He answered in the most simple and shortest way he could. "I have a meeting with Blaine and my undercover agent is missing. I need someone to drive the car and monitor the building and the people while I am inside."

She nodded and faced O'Hara. "You?"

"Lassiter is being a chauvinist pig and going alone and will probably be shot and then die." She said with a completely composed face.

"You?" Vick directed to Shawn.

"I want to be Lassiter's escort. I will psychically monitor the people inside and keep him out of danger." Vick, O'Hara, and Carlton all looked at Shawn in surprise. "I promise to make sure he doesn't get shot and then die" he simplified.

Chief Vick finally turned to Gus. "You?"

Gus stammered, desperate for a good lie that did not start with 'I was buying milk' "Uh…well, you see."

"He has a lead," Shawn said. Gus smiled and nodded like he knew what Shawn was talking about. "But he can't do it alone. I'll go watch out for Lassy, and O'Hara can help Gus. Everyone wins."

Vick looked thoughtful, O'Hara like she was going to protest, and Lassiter like he had swallowed a lemon.

"Carlton, you are to take Shawn with you." Vick ordered. Shawn grinned and Lassiter frowned. "I cannot allow you a gun Shawn, and you are a civilian, so you are going as the escort only. You are to stay in the vehicle and watch the building, if something happens, you will call the station. Agreed?" She left no leeway, so they both grunted an affirmative.

"O'Hara. Burton. You are to both follow up on this lead, and to not return to the station until the matter is thoroughly investigated. Agreed?" They both shook their heads yes. Chief Vick, satisfied with the arrangement, went right back into her office, closing the door softly. It was as if the clouds parted and sunlight streamed in; people began to file back to their desks and get back to work. It quickly became a madhouse again.

Gus grabbed Shawn by the arm and dragged him away, promising O'Hara he would return in just a sec.

"You lied to me! You didn't bring me here because of Lassiter, you brought me to distract O'Hara!"

"It worked didn't it? I couldn't solve this case if I had O'Hara tailing us, and Lassiter was right. This is a one-man job, it would be too suspicious if he went to his appointment with an unexpected guest."

"Then what the hell are you?"

Shawn smirked. "I'm a valet." At Gus's crestfallen look he added, "I'm not going to even enter the building."

"Promise me."

"What? Fine, I promise."

"No. Promise me," Gus insisted, holding out his pinky.

"Dude, you serious?"

Gus didn't reply, he just held out his pinky. "Your rules man."

"We were eight!" Shawn hated doing this. Not because it was childish, but because it was binding. Lassiter was already gone, presumably waiting in the car, and O'Hara was sitting at his desk, swiveling on his chair and sulking. "Fine." He hooked Gus's pinky with his own. "I promise to not enter the building." Gus, satisfied, let go and dropped his hand. Shawn turned to leave, but Gus stopped him again.

"What do I tell O'Hara? I don't have any leads."

"Nothing. Now is your chance to woo her. She likes Die Hard movies, take her to see one of those." Shawn made another break for it, waving goodbye and shouting "Good luck!" before disappearing around the corner.

Gus nervously approached O'Hara. "You know that all those criminals have mentioned liking Bruce Willis. I think we should start there."

"Your great lead told you that?" She asked skeptically. Gus shrugged and gave his best 'watta you going to do' looks.

O'Hara, knowing that Shawn and Carlton would be the only ones getting anything useful done, grudgingly smiled and took Gus's offered hand. "I guess we'd better go investigate then. I hear he's in a new movie actually."

Skidding around a corner and crashing through the main doors, Shawn was stunned to see a limousine parked outside the police station. He couldn't see Lassiter through the window because it was tinted, but he was sure he had a scowl on his face. Sliding into the drivers seat, Shawn put on his shades he brought for the occasion. He didn't know he would be driving a limo, but it paid to be prepared.

"Clothes are on the seat Spencer," Lassiter said from the back seat, indicating the valet style clothes neatly folded on the front cushion.

"I had no idea the loyal taxpayers would foot the bill for this kind of undercover stuff," Shawn commented, untying his sneakers.

"Of course they don't. This is all seized property. We're allowed to use it for investigative purposes."

"Hmm." Shawn struggled with the pants, which were made for someone shorter, probably Luke.

"You could have gotten dressed inside," Lassiter pointed out, seeing as how they were still parked outside the station.

Shawn smiled into the rear view mirror so Lassiter could see his face. "And miss an opportunity to get somewhat naked with you? Never." He flung his shirt off with pizzazz before buttoning up the uniform. Lassiter looked uncomfortable.

"I wish you would get over this thing with me Spencer." Shawn, with all of his skills of detection, couldn't follow where Lassiter was going with this. He twisted in his seat so he could face the detective.

"What is this thing, and how do you want me to overcome it?"

"This…flirtation. Thing." He waved his hand in a vague gesture. "This pseudo courtship. You've had your fun at my expense, and I would like it to stop." It was so polite, so impersonal, so _cold_.

"You think this is a joke?" Shawn asked in amazement. Sure, it started out that way, poking fun at the detective. Shawn would annoy and Lassiter would get angry and that was the way things were. But the more time he spent with the detective, the more he got to know him, the less it became a laugh at his expense. The fake psychic found himself actively testing how far he could go with Lassiter. The makeout session was a great success of boundary pushing, and in doing so he raised the bar.

"I think it's an old joke that is reaching its limit."

Shawn almost laughed out loud. "Oh Lassy, you don't even know. Or maybe I should be calling you Carlton now." Lassiter was not amused.

"Drive the car Spencer I can't be late."

"Aye aye Captain" He mock**-**saluted, turning on the car and whipping out of the lot.

They drove the rest of the way in what was mostly silencebecause Shawn always had something to comment on, and Lassiter gave directions. He pulled in front of a tall office building close to the center of the city. He watched in the rear view mirror as Lassiter painfully and slowly removed his gun.

"I can't go in there with this," he stated simply, obviously uncomfortable with going inside unarmed. He set his gun underneath his seat and shot a warning glare at Spencer. "Don't touch."

"I know."

"Stay in the car."

"I know."

"Stay out of trouble."

"I know," Shawn said, somewhat annoyed. Lassiter smiled a little, but only for a second. Shawn shouted as Lassiter shut the door, "Be careful!" He huffed, flopping down on his seat and undoing his seatbelt. Everything was going mostly to plan. He resigned himself to sitting several hours and watching the front. Luckily, he was in a limo, and had endless ways to entertain himself.

* * *

The elevator door opened to a richly lavished office, and Lassiter noticed several tasteful art items that were most likely originals. This spacious office room spoke volumes of wealth and power, and wanted everyone to know it. He sat on the cushion closest to the desk**'**s front and waited. It was almost mandatory for him to wait. It gave time for the individual to become nervous, insulted, and apprehensive, and thus stupid and rash. Like right out of the villain handbook, Blaine came walking in from a separate attachment door on the right after several boring hours of being told 'Blaine is a very important man whose time is valuable' by the slight secretary answering phones. Lassiter stood and shook his hand, which was firm.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Detective Lassiter," Blaine said, his accent just vague and light enough to make it hard to place. Foreign, possibly somewhere from around Russia. "Will you excuse us, miss?" Blaine directed toward the secretary, and watched her scurry off.

"The pleasure**'**s all mine, Mr. Blaine." Lassiter took his seat again, back straight but relaxed, his hands on his armrests and his legs uncrossed. "Beautiful room, great view." Looking out through the great bowed glass stained window, Lassiter could see several tall buildings and most of the wide city.

"It is, isn't it? Please, call me Thomas," Blaine said good-naturedly. He was older than Lassiter by a few years, very fit, and looked like some handsome owner of acres and acres of pastures, not a dangerous member of illegal underworld franchises. "So I hear from a most interesting source you wish to talk business, yes?"

"I have some property that I need moved."

Blaine smiled. "So why have you come to me? I happen to know that U-haul holds precedence over that matter."

"My property needs to be moved discreetly and safely."

Blaine laughed aloud with real mirth. Lassiter glared because he was being completely serious. "I have seen some police work in my time detective, but this is by far the best. Shall I plan an elaborate scheme doomed to fail, or shall I just turn myself in now and save you the trouble?" He wiped the bridge of his nose "I am disappointed. I was hoping you would make this worth my time." He sighed loudly, disappointment edging his words, "You could have a least tried to set me up properly, it wasn't even a challenge."

Lassiter, having been mocked enough, growled out, "I have several kilos of cocaine, four hundred thousand dollars that need to be cleaned, and enough prescription meds to supply every hospital from here to Washington that need to be sold and distributed within the next three days. I am offering highly illegal stolen goods to be transported by you and your crew with a fifteen percent cut." Blaine's humor immediately vanished, replaced with surprise and suspicion. Lassiter pointed to a glass and pitcher sitting on the shelf to his right. "May I?" With Blaine's slow nod, Lassiter poured himself a glass and took a long drink.

"So you see, I could set up a sting. I could be recording this conversation with a wire, all my buddies outside listening, planning a brilliant strategy to arrest you in the act. However," Lassiter paused, setting his empty glass on the desk, "I have just ruined the whole thing. I could catch you with tagged money in your fist, but it would never hold up in court because I came right out and said it. Entrapment is illegal as you know, and would make my evidence in court useless. Here, I'll do it again" Lassiter said it slow and loud: "Transport my illegal goods. Please. You don't have to, but I would appreciate it."

Blaine's eyes darkened. "I see what Simon meant when he said you were a cocky son of a bitch."

"It gets me through the day," Lassiter reasoned. "I didn't want to waste time playing undercover cop. I hope I didn't come off as rude."

"Oh, not at all detective," Blaine said fondly, clasping his hands over his desk. "It's nice to meet someone in this business who gets to the point."

"So we have an agreement? I have my affairs in order; all I need is a manned transport boat."

Lassiter leaned back and watched as Blaine removed invisible dirt from underneath his manicured nails. He frowned at the detective and shuffled some papers that were on his desk. "Not good enough. I am going to need insurance everything is good on your end. Simon's crew said you were good, but your own officers say you are straight as an arrow. You're either an amazing cop to make it this far, or you really mean to do business. For the safety of my men, I'm guessing good cop."

The good cop frowned internally. He didn't want to pull this into the game so soon, but he had little choice. "Want me to sweeten the deal? Fine." Lassiter gave a crooked smile and almost whispered, "You can have me."

"Have you?" Blaine questioned, his face tilted and showing genuine confusion.

"Sex, Thomas," Lassiter replied, looking positively lecherous. "I wouldn't mind sleeping with you, and no cop bartering sex in a sting would tell you so. I told you, I'm avoiding the undercover cop charade. We can fuck, you move my product and we both get paid. Simplistic." Being crude always helped Lassiter seem more genuine.

Blaine critically looked him over. Lassiter hid his worry that he would ask for a demonstration. A cell phone rang loudly in Blaine's pocket. He fished it out, glanced at the name, frowned, and then turned it off, ignoring the call completely.

"Very well Carlton," Blain said, freely using his first name, "Deal. I'll give you a date and time." He stood up and pressed the down button on the elevator for Lassiter. "We'll be seeing each other very soon." Lassiter nodded and intentionally brushed Blaine's shoulder on his way out.

"Wait just a moment," Blaine requested, stopping Lassiter on the gap between carpet and tile. Lassiter halted, raising his chin instead of asking why. "I had my doubts about you before Simon even opened his mouth." He grabbed Lassiter by his upturned chin and brought him closer, his lips just hovering over the detective's. "I just want to let you know that if something goes wrong, accidental or otherwise, I am holding you personally responsible." He hungrily devoured Lassiter's mouth, tasting and biting. Lassiter fought back, groaning and pushing his mouth harder into Blaine's. It was brutal and fierce, absolutely nothing like kissing Spencer. When he was kissing Spencer, it was thrilling. This was intimidating. Blaine bit sharply into Lassiter's bottom lip and pulled away, not ruffled in the slightest. "Clear?"

"As crystal," Lassiter panted, entering the elevator and adjusting his collar where Blaine's attentions had wrinkled it. He pressed B1 and watched the door close swiftly on the bright office and Blaine's smug expression. He wiped his mouth as the elevator descended, eager to rinse and spit, and ashamed that he compared Blaine to Spencer. Even more ashamed that he would rather kiss Spencer all day long than ever approach that man again.

Shawn, waiting in the car, was oblivious to Lassiter's uncomfortableness. He had the stereo blaring, drinking Aqua from a champagne glass, stretched out in the back seat. He was taking full advantage of every comfort the limo had to offer. He was also watching the people entering and exiting the building, but none had any importance to the investigation. The woman who just left the building was several months pregnant and lying on the phone about it, and the group of six entering were going to complain to management about their shifts. The best so far was the old man leaving a taxi to enter the wrong building. The man went in expecting to file an insurance claim at a trading company. Shawn felt his talents were being wasted until a man loitering outside the building made several phone calls and kicked the outside brick in frustration.

Shawn left the car. He promised Gus he wouldn't enter the building, which was set in stone. He promised Lassiter he would stay in the car, but he had his fingers crossed, so it was justified. He approached the man with a friendly smile.

"Hey man, need a lift? My fare is fair."

The man whirled, stiff and angry. "Does it look like I need a fucking limo ride? Christ!" Shawn flickered his eyes up and down once over the guy. The man was in jeans that were splattered with gray matter. His boots were covered in the same thing. His gray shirt was buttoned with large sweat stains on the pits and back. The cuffs of his pants and shirt were wet, and his hair was slick where he brushed it back out of his face when it was wet. He smelled salty and his shoelaces were new.

"Just looked like you needed some help. Your phone broken?"

"No," the guy said, calmer after his outburst. "The asshole's not picking up." The man dropped his phone back into his pocket. Shawn saw for split second a faded tattoo on his inner wrist and a stamp on the back of his hand. "You mind, pretty boy?" the guy grunted, indicating his privacy.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." Shawn left the man to vent his anger on the building wall and sat back inside the car. The man was obviously a Warf rat, which was good news to Shawn. He was considered unimportant because his phone calls go ignored and he wasn't allowed inside the building, but whatever he wanted to tell his boss, it must have been serious. The gray matter on his clothes was clay, and the stamp on his hand came from a drinking dive called Plank in the rougher area close to the docks. There were only a few docks in California's coast where a man would be exposed to enough clay to be liberally covered in it, and one dock close enough to stumble to and from Plank on off hours. By talking to one pissed off bystander, Shawn learned where Blaine did his drop offs.

The front door swung open and Lassiter came out, disapproval all over his face. "You left the car," he stated.

"Only for a second. I had to pee!" Shawn protested, wondering how Lassiter even knew.

"Whatever," he grunted, climbing into the back. "Take me back to the station." He slammed the door much harder than it needed. Shawn winced.

"Could have gone better?"

Lassiter rubbed his neck, mumbling, "Much better." He reached under his seat and strapped his gun on. "I got nothing on Blaine," he admitted miserably. "I have nothing to arrest him on after today. I'm meddling with entrapment, I can't arrest Blaine for smuggling, transporting illegal goods, or even prostitution. I've got to find something else to hold him on during our next meeting." He opened the bottle of Aqua Shawn was drinking from and gulped the rest in one long swallow. Shawn licked his lips and pretended to not have noticed. "And, by the way, I have no idea when it's going to take place."

"You know what you need?" Shawn asked. Lassiter scowled, thinking he was going to make some obscene innuendo. Instead Shawn replied, "A psychic," and Lassiter rolled up the dark dividing window. Shawn turned the ignition, turned up the volume, and put on his shades, only a little put out.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Later Days (4a/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Beta: VZG

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

They arrived outside of Lassiter's house with the sun still clinging to the landscape, the California smog giving the block a lovely silver glow. Shawn pulled up to park horizontally in his driveway, filling the whole cement block with the long automobile.

"Shall I get your bags Sir?" Shawn joked, offering humor in place of a serious conversation. Lassiter gave him a sharp look.

"I'm going to call Vick and make sure you've returned this car Spencer. No joyriding."

"Killjoy," muttered Shawn, opening Lassiter's door for him. Instead of getting out of the detective's way, he held his ground. They were standing incredibly close, the side door still open, trapping Lassiter between Shawn's body and the car. "He kissed you didn't he?" Lassiter's mouth automatically said no but his burning ears told the truth. Shawn shrugged, then grabbed him by the lapels of his suit, crushing their mouths together. Lassiter's noise of surprise was swallowed as Shawn deepened the kiss.

White knuckles gripped the adjacent car door and the hood of the limo as Lassiter tried to pull away. Shawn released the detective's lapels and wrapped his arms behind his neck instead, ruffling his hair. He pulled away briefly to mumble, "You really want the last person you tasted to be Thomas Blaine?" before capturing his mouth again.

Shawn would never admit it to anyone, but he felt angry when Lassiter came out from that building with a red bit lip. If anyone should be leaving marks on the detective, it should be him. He scraped his teeth along Lassiter's swollen lips, abandoning them for a moment to lick at Lassiter's neck. Lassiter arched and gasped, removing his grip from the car to push at Shawn.

"Stop." It sounded weak to Lassiter's own ears so he tried again louder "Stop it Spencer. Just, hold it." He let out a shaky breath and held Shawn at arm's length. "I'm not gay, you're not gay. What the hell are you even doing?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "That should be obvious Lassy, you're a good cop." He leant forward to kiss him again but Lassiter's hold was unyielding.

"Spencer," he struggled, trying to not sound like an idiot. "Shawn."

Shawn's flirty smile fell. The last thing he wanted to do was be serious. Seriousness implied caring, and caring implied being responsible and mature. Shawn never wanted responsibility as a child and he didn't want it now, but he knew he couldn't treat Lassiter like a one-night stand. He hated facing his feelings and manning up, but to make progress he had to put himself out on the line.

"I like you," he rushed "It's not about being straight or bi or gay, it's just…I like you." It seemed that once Shawn opened his mouth, he couldn't shut it. "At first it was fun, you know, bother the bitchy detective because you were _such_ an asshole. But the more time I spent around you, the less it was just a way to get under your skin. I wanted you. You were this…" Shawn flailed, trying to come up with a word to describe it, "thing, this…unattainable thing that was quickly becoming my center of focus. Not in this you want what you can't have kinda way, or like, a stalker. I just…" He stammered, wanting to shut up and end the embarrassing confession, "I just like you. We have chemistry together and I think it can actually go somewhere."

Lassiter swallowed and Shawn looked at the dirt. He thought furiously, was anything Spencer said not true? Shawn's face was honest and a little nervous, something Lassiter was not used to seeing. "What exactly am I suppose to say to that?" he asked openly, utterly confused at how to handle this. He'd never found himself attracted to another man before, and Spencer was everything he avoided in a relationship: immature, irresponsible, obnoxious, and flighty, but he did have his good qualities. Lassiter did respect Shawn for the work he did. He could be a damn good cop; Lassiter just couldn't discover why he chose the fake psychic façade. Shawn was irritating and loud, but he did look out for others, and Lassiter would have been lying to himself if he said he never enjoyed his company.

"You could invite me into your house?" Shawn responded, interrupting Lassiter's musing. _And into bed_ Shawn mentally finished. Lassiter looked confused, embarrassed, and even a little afraid. He was worried he pressed things too far, and the detective was going to slam the door in his face.

"I don't think that's a very good idea…right now."

Shawn hid the disappointment and sadness on his face very well. "It is late," he said simply, feigning a smile. He stepped out of the way and opened the driver door. An arm gripped his elbow to stop him. Lassiter's overheated skin seeped into him and he could feel sweat beads forming underneath his valet costume.

"It wasn't a _no_," Lassiter said as he touched Shawn's cheek. He kissed him softly and chastely, his other hand straying to settle on the small of Shawn's back. "It was more of a _later_," he whispered; still so close every word he said brushed his lips up against Shawn's. Shawn smiled for real and engaged Lassiter in a warm open-mouthed kiss, pulling away shortly after.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

Word was out next day at the station. Head Detective Carlton Lassiter was on the tail of criminal business tycoon Thomas Blaine. Rumors were being squashed right and left, desperately trying to avoid word leaking out and running quarry underground. Vick was out of the building, forced home to sleep and eat something that did not require a microwave. Lassiter could feel guilty later for making Vick work so hard after everyone was behind bars. The evidence was organized and ready to bring down Connie and the like, the statements written, and the swat teams loaded; all that was needed was for Blaine to be arrested and brought in and the ax would be dropped on several leading members of the black market smuggling trade. No pressure.

Lassiter had absolutely nothing to go on. Blaine sent his message, so now he had exactly 47 hours to find some evidence to arrest Blaine on that did not include smuggling, illegal trading, and prostitution. It left plenty of other things like bribery, theft, or use of unregistered vehicles, but none of those sentences would be long enough. Blaine would be out within the week and back in business with a grudge to settle. Lassiter needed something substantial that could incur a life sentence.

With things as bleak as they were, Shawn waltzing through the front door was a relief. He passed Lassiter who was standing by his desk organizing several folders, and winked. Lassiter frowned but said nothing, so technically it was a step in the right direction. Besides, things between the psychic and detective could have been very awkward indeed, so Shawn was glad some things stayed the same, Lassiter's displeasure with his arrival being one of them, but it seemed a little fake, so kudos to him.

Gus and O'Hara were also loitering around, much to the amusement of Shawn. O'Hara was sitting in her chair and Gus was slouching on the corner of her desk. They whispered

back and forth and giggled like children. Shawn couldn't have been more proud.

"Hard at work I see," Shawn mused, directing his attention to the happy couple.

"We were discussing the case," O'Hara supplied, Gus nodding in agreement.

"Please. You were discussing which ice cream topping has more potential, Gus's chocomocho shell or your recent concoction."

O'Hara smiled broadly. "How do you always know?" Shawn tapped his nose in reply and left to hover over Lassiter.

Lassiter, now typing away diligently at his computer, poured over sheet after sheet of Blaine's business documents, court hearings, legal proceedings, and even traffic tickets. Shawn sat on his desk and waited for Lassiter to acknowledge him. Brief eye contact was all he got before Lassiter dove back into his papers.

"So…" Shawn drawled, "stuck?"

"Momentarily," Lassiter growled. Shawn touched his temples and groaned. "What is it?" He asked, annoyed that Shawn was going to push some crucial clue in his face but relieved that he would have something to look into instead of three-year-old traffic reports.

Shawn screwed his eyes shut, thrashing about and yelling, "A board! No, wait, wood? Erm, pirates, shipmates…Plank. A Plank!" Shawn had attracted a crowd, so for the last part he scribbled furiously on the back of a ticket report, handing it to Lassiter. He read the note, half smiled and grabbed his keys, already intent on leaving. O'Hara ran in front of the door, intent on stopping him.

"I'm going too."

"No." Lassiter and Shawn said in unison. They both gave each other a weird look, and O'Hara looked confused. "You would draw attention where I'm going. It's just going to be a stake out," Lassiter explained.

"Wait, I'm going too!" Shawn stated.

"He's my partner. You're not even a cop!" she yelled back.

"I told him where to go!"

"Enough!" Lassiter pushed past them, ignoring their protests. "O'Hara, I'm your superior and I am ordering you to stay here." O'Hara's opened her mouth to complain, but Lassiter cut her off "Your job is to watch him," pointing to Shawn, "and make sure he does not follow me. Understood?" He used his authority figure voice, and there was little O'Hara could do to stop her commanding officer.

"Yes," she said through clenched teeth. O'Hara, definitely not one for anger or violence, entertained the thought of Lassiter being mutinied by his pirate crew and thrown to the sharks. She wasn't bitter about being denied the opportunity to chase down notorious criminals, she was angry with Lassiter for protecting her from these people. She was an officer and felt she should be treated as one.

Shawn, taking advantage of the distracted Head Detective and partner, slipped over to where Gus was cleverly avoiding the confrontation. "I need you to be my wing man."

Gus folded his arms and shook his head no. "I'm not letting you run off to some dangerous smuggling criminal infested hole."

"So I should just let Lassiter go it alone?"

"Yeah," Gus said, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes squinted. "That's his job and he's been doing it alone for a long while now."

Shawn covered his eyes with his palms and mumbled toward the ceiling, "Just trust me on this. I have this feeling."

"Feeling?" Gus doubtingly asked.

"Yes," he replied, refusing to elaborate. "Now go talk to O'Hara because Lassiter is leaving."

Shawn, with everyone's back to him, cracked a window and slunk out. Gus turned and O'Hara was in his face.

"Where's Shawn?"

"Bathroom," he lied immediately. O'Hara narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. "He'll…uh, just be moment?"

Lassiter, already in his car, was driving down the main road, heading straight for his house. After a quick stop to change clothes (his suit and tie replaced with jeans and an old faded t-shirt with jacket) and grab a few essentials (high tech camera that could fit in his wallet), he made sure his gun was tucked safely away in his waistband and hidden by his shirt before leaving his driveway. Looking suspiciously in his car's rear view mirror, he sped up so fast so quickly his tires squealed and smoked. He pressed on the brakes, bracing himself on the wheel while inertia threw everything forward. Something large and heavy slammed into the back of his seat.

"Seatbelt check," Lassiter said, humor in his voice.

A muffled, "not funny," came from the back seat.

"Out Spencer." He pressed the unlock button so all the latches switched to the green side. Shawn raised his head up off the car floor, picking himself up on his hands and knees.

"I promise to buckle up," Shawn pleaded, sitting on the back cushion. Lassiter left the car, walked around the vehicle, and opened Shawn's door for him. "You going to pull me out kicking and screaming?"

Lassiter dusted himself off and left Shawn handcuffed to his mailbox. "I'll call O'Hara and have her pick you up."

"You're making a big mistake!" Shawn warned, struggling against the metal pole several feet in the ground.

"You'll thank me for it later." Lassiter climbed back into his car, rubbing his nose where Shawn had conked him with a flailing fist. He waved a fond goodbye and sped off toward the coast.

Shawn swore so loudly the neighbor**'**s dog started barking. He rifled through his loose pockets for anything. Gum wrapper, a receipt from 7 Eleven, coins, cell phone, and lint. He cursed again. The mailbox handle had sprung open while Shawn struggled, its spring-operated mechanism shaken loose from its clasp. Shawn mouthed "thank you" and tore the small wire spring from the tin.

* * *

Lassiter reached The Plank sooner than he thought. It was too early for the night crew to have made port, so only a few scattered drunks were about. The Plank was just as unpleasant as it sounded: dark, moist, and smelling like cheap beer. It was the opposite of what tourists imagined California's coast to be like. There was no sand, no sun, not even clean air. It was where fisherman brought their catch and where the destitute made their homes. It would be too expensive to bring cops in to clean up the place, so it had fallen into decay. The only honest money being brought in was from the clay and silt plants, sending rigs out to swipe the mineral rich sludge from specific regions on the ocean floor.

The note from Shawn said Blaine's crew were locals from the Plank and worked around dock five, six, or seven. The note had a five, six, and seven which were all crossed out with question marks behind them. It also had a skillfully drawn picture of a clump of clay (or feces, but he was pretty sure it was clay). At any rate, Lassiter was sure this was the place.

"Stamp," a voice called.

Lassiter turned to the old gruff bartender who had called him. "What?"

"Stamp. I gotta stamp your hand boy." Lassiter riled at being called a boy, but showed the back of his hand anyway. The bartender adjusted some dials and stamped Lassiter's hand with a ruddy brown **7:12pm**. It was a crude but efficient way to let the barkeep know how long its patrons have been in. The drunks at the counter had different color ink than Lassiter, so they must have been there the day before. The help would be throwing them out before the sun set. Lassiter took a seat and waited. The windows were blacked so people weren't suppose to be able to see outside, but most of them were broken, so the dying rays of sunlight rebelliously shone through.

After watching a wonderfully unmatched brawl between an intoxicated youth and the burly bartender, the outside had darkened considerably and loud boat horns could be heard. Sea crews began to enter, five to ten at a time. Soon the bar had filled with filthy, sweaty, and intolerably drunken men. The workers from the boats unloaded quickly, eager to get to their favorite drinking hole. Lassiter slipped outside, watching ships and boats sway unevenly in the distance. If Blaine's smuggling rig were docked nearby, it would be left with several armed guards. In this case, the more men on a waiting ship, the better.

What passed for the sidewalk was wet and muddy, muffling Lassiter's footsteps as he stalked from dock to dock. Dock 5 was a fishing boat, and the crew was unloading Pollock and garbage from its nets. Dock 6 was devoid of all people, the ship anchored and tied. At a closer inspection, the ship was grounded and abandoned. Dock 7 had a large rusty rig with numbers painted on the side instead of a name. It was standard transport class and looked a lot like the other ships in the area. He only observed from a distance and a battered chain link fence separated the dock from the warehouses. Even from far away, he could see two men patrolling the dock. They were wearing long jackets with straps on both sides and were most likely heavily armed.

Lassiter followed the fence away from the dock until it came to the edge of warehouse. Looking around, he scaled it quickly, landing on the other side. The gravel crunched under his feet, quiet in comparison to all the outside ocean sounds of crashing waves and screaming gulls. He ducked into the closest warehouse. It was empty except for some barrels and steel pipes. The darkness helped and hindered the detective. He was more likely to go unnoticed, and more likely to stumble and fall over rotted rafter pieces.

He stuck to the walls, entering warehouse after warehouse and making progress toward the ship. The last warehouse he snuck into had several men around a barrel fire, warming their hands over it and sharing lewd stories. They didn't even notice as he slipped past them a few feet away. Now the ship was so close he could jump into the water and swim to it if he liked (absolutely last resort). He just needed a way in. Avoiding all lamps and lights, he hid behind some crates and watched the guards do their rounds on the ship's ramp. They always went two at a time, one in front of the other. Lassiter figured his one shot was to slide under the metal grating when they were both at the top of the ramp, and climb into the ship using one of the lower level doors or windows.

The two men touched the bottom of the ramp, looked both ways, and began to walk up again. Lassiter crouched, waiting a few more minutes till they both turned around on the ships deck. The moment he flexed his muscles in preparation to run, arms wrapped around his stomach and chest, one hand covering his mouth. Lassiter raised his arm for leverage and power and elbowed the person right in the ribs. A strangled "_guhumphed_" left his attacker and the hold he had on Lassiter weakened. He reached over his shoulders and bent forward, catapulting the man over his back to hit the floor. Shawn Spencer lay sprawled and dazed on the filthy ground.

The patrolmen were returning to the ramps bottom. Lassiter grabbed Shawn by his shirt and dragged him back behind the crates. Holding him to his chest so Shawn wasn't lying flat on his back, he mumbled an apology. Shawn was still in his bright orange shirt from before, not suited at all for sneaking around, compared to Lassiter's choice of dark colors.

"Should have warned you," Shawn wheezed, struggling to sit up. This time Lassiter covered Shawn's mouth with his palm, waiting while the two men looked curiously around. They eventually continued up the ramp, dismissing whatever they thought they heard.

"Christ Spencer! I could have killed you!" he whispered harshly, checking Shawn over and gingerly touching his ribs where he elbowed him. Shawn winced and lifted his shirt, revealing a large dark purpling bruise just under where his heart should be, just above his nipple.

"No need to brag" he said as he smiled, though it was more of a grimace than any kind of smile. "Nothings broken so I'll be fine." Lassiter's guilt made him apologize a second time, checking Shawn's injuries again.

"Why'd you stop me?"

"Because the uglier guard has a bladder infection and will be needing to use the bathroom really really soon." Shawn sat up and off of Lassiter, peeking over the crate very briefly. The patrol guard was slower than his companion and swayed when he walked, indicating he needed to urinate so badly it hurts, or drunkenness. Shawn was putting his money on a UTI.

"How did you get out of my cuffs?" Lassiter questioned offhandedly. His guilt was replaced with anger as he also asked, "And why did you follow me when I specifically said no?"

Thankfully, the UTI guard decided now was the time. He said something to his buddy, who nodded, and they both left their post, presumably to the nearest building wall. Heaving him to his feet, Lassiter silently ran onto the ship, half hauling Shawn by his shirt. The deck door was open, and they jumped down into the lower levels. Shallow steps lead them down deep into the ship. Lassiter pulled out his gun and pushed Shawn behind him. The dimly lit corridor lamps flickered on and off, framing each door that

spanned the length of the ship. Each door had a number and severe water damage.

The ship rocked slowly, rolling something tin back and forth down the hall with little dinging sounds. Lassiter quietly pushed one of the doors open to investigate and inside was a shallow wooden box. A dirty futon and a blanket were on top making it into a tiny bed. Crew's quarters were along both sides of the corridor, an unusual and impractical setup for a transport ship.

"We have to go lower," Lassiter whispered, pulling Shawn by his now stretched out shirt. They reached the end of the hall and met a solid wall. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall from the deck, getting louder and closer.

"Shit," Shawn cursed, getting free from Lassiter's hold. "Someone's coming." Lassiter opened the nearest door and pulled Shawn in, holding the door shut. The room was obviously storage, there were long vertical shelves filled with boxes, ropes, kits, and supplies. The footsteps clomped down the corridor, stopping once a few feet from where they were hiding. Shawn leaned against the wall, breathing quietly through his nose. He looked around the room for things to use as a weapon if something happened. Lassiter was in front with a gun, which was good, but Shawn was unarmed. An iron grate was on the wall, framing a tube. Shawn tiptoed over to get a better look.

It appeared to be some sort of vent, maybe to let air course through parts of the ships. He entertained the idea of using it as a crawl space, but the farther the tube was into the interior the smaller it got. If Shawn were the size of a dachshund he could have made it. He could feel air being blown out of it, and heard the softest of sounds coming from it. Lassiter was still poised by the door, gun out and ready, one hand on the doorknob. Shawn leant closer, straining to hear something. It was heavily muffled and very soft, but he could swear it was voices. The ship had a lower floor that had something alive in it.

Shawn signaled Lassiter to come over, looking over his shoulder at the detective. He was shocked to see Lassiter was opening the door and peeking outside. Shawn snuck back over to Lassiter, whispering, "Is he gone?"

He shook his head no. "He walked over here, then went into one of the rooms. He hasn't come out." Pushing the door open and walking cautiously out, Lassiter scanned the corridor. One door was left open and swinging on oiled hinges. Peering into the small living space, they could see the bed had been tipped over on its side, revealing an open grate underneath. A metal ladder could be seen, descending into the dark hole.

"I think there's people down there," Shawn said, thinking to the vent with tiny voices in it. He felt the rock in his stomach grow in size and weight; something bad was going to happen and it made Shawn nervous. Lassiter had a bead of sweat on the back of his neck and Shawn knew he was feeling it too. Something about this whole setup was seriously wrong.

"Get out of here if I don't return in ten minutes," Lassiter stated, getting ready to climb down the ladder. Shawn, grinding his teeth, roughly shoved Lassiter out of the way and jumped onto the ladder, ignoring the steps and sliding straight down. He hit the bottom, a single lamp being his only source of light. Lassiter thumped down seconds later, grabbing Shawn and growling in his ear, "What. The. Hell?"

"You're not leaving me this time. We do this together or not at all." Shawn said, growling right back. "You don't have to fucking protect me! I can take care—" He immediately shut his mouth as a scream broke through the stale hot air. Gun drawn with Shawn forced behind him, Lassiter walked down the path. It was so narrow that Shawn had no choice but to follow Lassiter, and it was so stifling he could feel his palms sweating and his lips drying. Mashed between two sheets of metal in a dark tunnel, they trudged forward to an open door. They could see locks and chains on the outside. Several bare light bulbs illuminated the open room showing grime, oil, and filth that had collected on the walls and crates inside. It smelled horrible, rotting wood and dead fish filtering the air. The farther they walked in, the worse it became. First dirt, seawater, and sludge, then death, decay, and blood. They heard scuffling and began to run.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Later Days (4b/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Beta: VZG

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

They finally saw the man who they had followed down the ladder. He was a large, sun burnt man who had wrestled a young woman to the ground. She screamed again and he struck her twice on the face, making blood spurt from her nose. Lassiter threw his gun to Shawn and was behind the man in a second, pulling him off and cocking his fist. He punched the man so hard the smack echoed across the room. Blood welled and his eyes crossed before hitting the ground with a shattering thud. Shawn ran to the girl on the ground, she couldn't have been more than seventeen years old. She was dazed and bloody, dirty and half dressed, but she would live at least.

"Hey, hey! Are you okay?" Shawn asked, throwing the gun back to Lassiter before lifting her into a sitting position and wiping her blood up with his shirt. She struggled pathetically and Shawn tried to calm her. Shushing and telling her it was okay: he wouldn't hurt her, she was okay. She began to cry, clutching his chest and rocking. Lassiter was busy moving the unconscious man to the corner and covering him with netting, boards, and scraps of cloth that littered the floor.

"What's your name?" Shawn asked, rocking with her as her sobs faded. She didn't answer, just continued to hold tight onto his shirt and whimper, hiding her face in his chest and shivering.

"Shawn," Lassiter said, done with his work, "There are more."

Shawn looked up, and from behind crates, barrels, and underneath blankets frightened faces peeked out. They were all children, male and female, not one over seventeen, and were all bloody, beaten, and hurt. Shawn realized what the vent was for upstairs. It allowed minimal amounts of fresh air into this room. The hidden room was under tons of concrete, wood, and steel, able to muffle out the loudest screams. They could all hear the water lapping at the sides of the ships, so it must be located somewhere at the very bottom, maybe only several sheets of metal protect the interior from the water. Blaine was smuggling children, most likely to brothels in other parts of the world, and just knowing that made Shawn taste bile in his mouth.

Lassiter was going from child to child assessing injuries. Most of the children shied away in fear from him, so he moved slowly and talked softly. He would not seem the least bit perturbed about the whole situation to the causal observer, but Shawn could see the stress and pity hidden on his face. Lassiter found bruises, cuts, contusions, and even a few broken bones. In the far corner was a body of a young boy no older than ten with a crushed chest. There were nineteen children in all. Lassiter, who had dealt with this kind of thing before, figured Blaine was getting over twenty thousand a head. They were all pretty, young, blond, free of disease, and American, so that may be a few more thousand. Selling kids overseas to work in high**-**priced bordellos.

"We've got to get these kids out of here!" Shawn said, still sitting on the floor with the girl.

"We can't call the cops," Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. He crouched down to whisper in Shawn's ear as so to not frighten the children, "They even think they see blue and they will be down here to shoot every last one of these kids and dump them. Safer for the business," he explained. Shawn looked disgusted. Suddenly, there were voices coming down the hall. Approximately two or more men where coming straight toward them.

"We've got to hide. Hey," Shawn said softly to the girl. "We're going to hide, and you can't tell them we're here okay"

"Where are we going to hide?" Lassiter hissed, looking around the enclosed room. Boxes, barrels, and crates were littered about, but nothing large enough to hide two full-grown men. Some children hid themselves the best they could with little purpose other than fear.

"There!" Shawn pointed to a large slouching piece of sheet metal on the wall. Lassiter yanked one side and it bent to reveal an old makeshift bathroom. The toilet was caved in and covered in debris. Lassiter had to climb in because the entrance was a foot off the ground, almost like it was carved into the wall with steps in mind. Shawn sadly let go of the girl and raced to join Lassiter in the hovel. They were pressed up close to one another, Lassiter's arm over Shawn's shoulder where he reached to bend the thin metal shut. A sliver of light was streaming through the top, and multiple tears and holes made for many peepholes. They were fully encased in darkness so as long as they didn't make any noise, no one should know they were there. There was a quiet click that came from Lassiter, and Shawn assumed it was from his gun.

Because of the proximity, Lassiter could feel every muscle tense in Shawn's body when the two men came through the open door. Shawn recognized the first man as the same man he talked to outside Blaine's building. Apparently whatever he had to tell the boss was important enough, because Blaine himself was here on this filthy dock in his own filthy smuggling ship. The girl Shawn had been holding moments before wailed and scooted herself to the wall, knees to her chest and head down as the men walked closer.

"Fat ass left the door open," complained the guy, unknowingly several feet from hidden unconscious Fat Ass. "Well, its like I said, they're all hurt. One of 'em**'**s dead I think." He said, pointing in the direction of the boy's body. "Bruce crashed his truck on the way over, said they all went flying in the box. I said we don't take 'em unless they're gonna be okay, and he said they were fine." He pulled the girl up by one of her arms. She screeched and began pleading in a different language, her words rushed and slurred. Lassiter moved and Shawn felt the cold barrel of his gun brush his arm. He was willing to burst out firing if they were going to hurt anyone of the children. "I don't think they're fine." He let her go and she shrunk back against the wall.

Blaine groaned and inspected some of the kids, watching one green-eyed girl roll away from him shielding her angled broken leg. "What did you say when Bruce said they were okay?" he asked, frowning at what he saw.

"I said no, but he was pushy. He was just the transport and couldn't take them to a hospital. I brought them in, thinking it wasn't so bad, but when they came out, they weren't. I ain't crating them to buyers when they looked like this."

"So," Blaine reasoned, circling the man, "you came to me to get the okay. You brought _me_ away so you could show me your mistakes and then save you from them?"

"Well, no," he interjected.

"You brought _me_ to this festering _hole_ to save you from your mistake?"

The man nervously swallowed. "I can still send them out, I just wanted you to see."

"No," Blaine condescendingly said, "you wanted to tell the pickup crew that I said it was okay. You wanted this to not be your fault in case something goes wrong, so tell me, what is it that I always say to you?"

Looking down at the ground he fidgeted and nervously guessed, "Always take responsibility for you actions?"

"Brilliant" Blaine said smiling. He then pulled out a double action 38. special revolver and shot the man dead in the chest. Screams erupted in the bunker, high-pitched and loud. Shawn immediately grabbed onto Lassiter, who was already struggling to leave the hidden confinement and start arresting. If Lassiter came out now, the gig would be up. Blaine would be arrested and released on terms of entrapment; Teleski, Mount, Susanna, and Connie would all go into hiding, Simon and all accomplices in his little coup would be killed, and that's only if Shawn and Lassiter managed to make it off the property alive with nineteen wounded children. Mentally begging Lassiter to see reason, Shawn desperately bit him hard on the arm, tasting grim and copper. Lassiter thankfully clamped his mouth shut around the groan of pain and stopped fighting. He was so angry Shawn could feel him shaking with it.

The man fell down like a cut marionette, gurgling deep in his throat. His shirt swelled and soaked with so much blood so fast that a main artery must have been hit. Blaine walked over, standing directly over the man to watch him die. Shawn could now see why Lassiter was so vehement about doing this all alone. Blaine watched the man form foamy blood bubbles from his mouth, completely amused by it. Lassiter was tangled up with a man who would kill any human being if it profited him, and had the power to do so. The screaming had stopped and was replaced with crying, the children letting out a chorus of sobs and wails.

Blaine calmly put his gun back into wherever he pulled it from in the first place and looked at the children who had collected in a corner. "Don't worry," he cooed, "you're all still going somewhere." He laughed like whatever he said was uproarishly funny, the children flinching at his volume. He turned around and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Lassiter burst out and ran over to the man, but it was in vain. He was already dead, his blood pooling out all around him, thick and dark. Lassiter cursed, his foot tapping with nervous energy.

"We need to go. He'll be out collecting the crew to leave shore."

Shawn nearly fell from the sudden drop, and stumbled toward the door, pushing on it, but it was locked from the outside. "We're locked in," he vented, kicking the door in frustration.

"Cell phone?"

"No reception."

Lassiter cursed again. "Here, splint the kids with broken bones." He handed Shawn a pipe and cloth from the ground. "It'll have to do," he lamented, shoving his anger, resentment, and hatred to the back of his mind. Shawn looked so young to Lassiter right then. He was dirty, bloody, and holding a steel pipe and soiled rag to strap to some traumatized child. Lassiter cursed himself to hell and back for ever letting Spencer come. He could have stopped him he stopped O'Hara, so he should have stopped Spencer. He hated so much that he didn't even know how to apologize to Shawn for screwing up so bad.

"Hey, this would go faster if you helped" Shawn called, holding up his hands in a nonthreatening manner as he approached the girl with the broken leg. Shawn, with all his police training, had never expected anything like this. He's seen bodies of course, but seeing that man get shot in cold blood, and the crushed boy in the corner, chewed him up something fierce in his chest. He was pale, forcing his hands to stop shaking while he straightened her leg and tightly tied support to it. The thing tearing at him most was the knowledge that he would _never_ be able to forget it. The sound of the shot, the smell in the air, every single detail of the whole sick twisted room burned into his brain for the rest of his life.

"Stand up Shawn," Lassiter ordered. Shawn was crouching by the girl, wiping her tears off with his large callused thumb. Shawn stood; his head hung low and fighting to keep his expression bland.

"I'm sorry," he said. "God I'm so sorry." Lassiter did something he never did before, and embraced Shawn, running one hand up through his spiky hair, and the other holding tight. Shawn felt like he should object he did after all, go against all orders to stay behind. Even with how terrible and hopeless it all seemed, Shawn was glad that he came. If he had the chance, he would do it again. "We'll get out of here and I promise I'll do whatever you want." Shawn inhaled deeply, smelling sweat, engine oil, the sea, and Lassiter's faint remaining cologne. It was almost as comforting as the contact.

"Dress 'n drag and do the hula?" he weakly joked, his best defense against how freaked out he really was. Lassiter snorted, the closest to a laugh he was going to get. "So what's the plan?" Shawn asked, pulling away reluctantly and listening to Lassiter's reply while working on fractured limbs.

"Patch up the kids best we can. We carry those who can't walk." The children began to come out of hiding, sniffling and holding onto their injuries. "I'll get the door open." He checked his clip from is gun, seven shots, and loaded it. "We get out, run to the street, call the hospital." Bending down so he wasn't towering over the first child to approach him, he said quietly, "What's your name kid?"

The boy was blue eyed, blond, and skinny. His shirt had Spider-man on it and he was in shorts, his knees bloody and scraped. "Bobby," he whispered.

"Well Bobby, I'm going to need your help okay?"

"Are you taking us away again?" Bobby never looked Lassiter in the face, and talked so softly he strained to hear it. "The last man who took us away took us here." Several of the other kids agreed and nodded their heads.

Lassiter smiled although it was forced and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his brown leather wallet and opened it to show his ID badge. "I'm a cop, see?" He raised it to show all the children, most that were now forming a semi-circle around him. "I'm going to take you back to your homes, okay" he addressed the group. Shawn gave him a thumbs up, indicating he had wrapped the last broken bone. A broken leg on the small girl, a fractured ankle on a boy who also didn't speak English, broken wrist and arm on another boy who was seven years old, and a barrage of sprains and bruises and probably concussions. Tired, scared, and hurt children who were at least mobile. For now it would have to be enough.

"Bobby," Lassiter continued, "I need you to be the end of the line, can you do that for me?" Lassiter waited for a response, and Bobby slowly shook his head yes. "Great. If anyone falls behind you, I need you to yell 'Stop'. Can you yell stop for me?"

"Stop," he said, louder than his previous whisper.

"Once more," Lassiter encouraged. Bobby said it again louder. "That's perfect. Everyone grab a hand." Like good children in class, each child grabbed a hand. Shawn helped them line up, one in front of another. The only ones not participating were the little green-eyed girl, (she was riding piggy-back on Shawn, her leg wrapped around a short pipe and a board) and the oldest girl, still lying in the fetal position against the wall, facing the dead man.

Cautiously approaching her, Shawn knelt at her feet, cradling the girl on his back. "Please," he begged. "We want to help you." She didn't even acknowledge he was there. He tried again, "Give me your hand," and without a response he took her hand in his and brought it up to his chest. Her hand rested over his heart, small, white, and frigid. "Come with us," he commanded, his heart beating slow and steady. She immediately stood, face cast downward and hung so low her long hair hid her whole face.

Lassiter just watched in astonishment as Shawn led the girl to the other children, holding her hand.

"Hold here," he said, transferring the girl's hand to the child in front. A long line of dirty quiet children stood holding hands and awaiting orders. "We're all ready."

"Okay." Lassiter drew his gun and pointed it at the doors hinges. "This is going to be very loud, so brace yourselves," he instructed. "We exit, climb the ladder, and leave the boat. Everyone is to stay behind me at all times." He pointed to Bobby "What is your job?"

The boy on the end raised his hand before answering, "Yell if someone falls behind." Lassiter smirked (it was short lived) and nodding his head. He aimed his gun and fired two perfect shots, blowing out the hinges. The door swung cockeyed to the left, the chains on the outside keeping it from falling down. He fired again to the center of the chain links, splintering it. Several children screamed in shock when the gun went off, but fell back into silence as the chain broke and the door fell with a clattering bang.

They all filed out into the corridor, the children curving the line to give the dead man a wide birth. The lights were off so the whole long hall was in total darkness. Lassiter had one hand on the wall, the other holding his loaded weapon, and a constant tugging on the back end of his t-shirt where the front young boy was clasping it. He found the ladder soon enough and began climbing it. The trap door was shut, but not locked. Pushing hard against it, Lassiter could feel the heavy weight on top (the bed) being forced up. Using his forearm, he extended his arm upward so the bed was knocked aside and trap door flung open.

Climbing out, gun raised, he scanned the perimeter. No one was around, and because the bunker was built to block out sound for the purpose of smuggling, no one heard the shots. He helped the first boy up and out of the hole. The small room was slowly being filled with children as Lassiter pulled them out one by one. The boy in the middle was going the slowest because of his heavy limp, and Shawn was behind him pushing on the seat of his pants so he could climb up the ladder. Shawn took over Lassiter's duties of helping the children out so Lassiter could open the door and look both ways down the hall.

It was blissfully vacant. The long winding hall swayed with the ocean's waves and the only sound was the groaning of the ship and the rolling piece of tin they heard the first time around. The boy grabbed onto his shirt again, and Lassiter began to lead them out of the ship. The whole group was almost to the stairs that would lead to the deck, when a surprisingly loud voice yelled, "Stop!"

Bobby, in his high eight year old voice, said, "Someone got behind me." Shawn and the oldest girl had stepped out of line. Shawn was lowering the girl with the broken leg off his back onto the oldest girl's. Once she was secure, the girl crowded back into the line, grabbing a hand in front and behind.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter pivoted to look at Shawn and keep one eye ahead. Shawn ran ahead to catch up, brushing past Lassiter and touching shoulders.

"Trust me!" He said, running up the stairs taking them two at a time. The door to the deck was open, and Shawn came bursting out into the open. Lassiter's face lost all color as he heard Shawn screaming to the two guards on the off ramp just outside, "You bitches want some of this?"

There was the most eerie absolute silence for three seconds. The ship even stopped rocking and the gulls outside stopped crying. A perfect stillness that was shattered by yelling, cursing, scuffling, and then gunfire. Lassiter's heart was beating so hard his lungs hurt like its movements were rocking them. There was more shouting, most in English, and the sound of running feet. The guards, and everyone else in the area were taking off at a steady run away from the ship. Shawn made himself into a distraction and was being pursued by god knew how many armed men. If he ever saw him alive again, Lassiter was going to shoot him.

"Move!" he ordered the kids, grabbing the hand of the first boy and pulling the line along as fast as they could all run. It was cumbersome and slow, some limping and crying, one or two almost being dragged by the ones in front of them. Bobby was being diligent at making sure no one fell behind him, and the oldest girl made sure the one on her back was not going to fall. The group came through the deck door and onto the ramp. It was now so late in the night the crescent moon gave some natural light that illuminated the swaying boats on either side of the ship and the buildings in front. Most lamps were lit, but far away.

It was good cover. There were no people in sight but distant shouting could be heard. Lassiter focused on getting the children out instead of what was going to happen if Shawn never returned. The warehouse was open, and darker than the outside. He funneled the children in, holding tightly to the boy in front. The only thing anyone could see was the light from the exit door at the opposite end. Lassiter crunched broken bottle shards underneath his shoes, and grinded his teeth because most of the children weren't wearing shoes. He avoided the glass best he could and was almost at the exit when he saw it.

A dark silhouette of a person framed the doorway. Whoever it was had a gun and was approaching. It would be impossible to hunker down and pray that whoever it was would not notice them because a flashlight clicked on and was scanning the large warehouse floor. Lassiter let go of the boy and pushed on his shoulder so he was forced to kneel. The boy obediently made no sound and knelt, and Lassiter could tell the other ones were following suit. He crept away, intent on leading the figure away from the kids. Lassiter avoided the barrels and garbage that was littered along the ground. He had already snuck through this warehouse once, and, as a good detective should, cataloged where potentially underfoot objects were and what could be used to hide behind in case of gunfire.

Kneeling behind a large canister as the light shown by, he snuck around to the other side. The person was facing him and coming closer with every step. A gull cawed in the distance, and the light swung to face that direction. Lassiter grabbed a triangular piece of glass that was digging into his knee and flung it across the room. It hit the floor, almost echoing, and drew the assailant's attention in the opposite direction. Lassiter stood and pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of the man's skull.

"Drop the gun."

Instead of complying, the man whirled around, using the flashlight as a baton and knocking the gun away. Lassiter grabbed the man**'**s other wrist and twisted, forcing the mans body to bend forward and drop his gun. A high feminine voice of pain gasped out, and Lassiter paused in surprise. The flashlight zipped over to his face, temporarily blinding him.

"Lassiter?" a shocked voice asked.

Lassiter let go of the slender wrist, his gun still raised. "O'Hara?"

"Oh thank God!" she gasped, rubbing her wrist and picking up her weapon. "What is going on? I heard gunfire. Are you—"

He cuts her off with a gruff, "Did you bring anyone with you?"

"Two squad cars." O'Hara recovered enough to say, "What's happening?"

"I'll explain later. Help me get these children out of here and to a hospital." He pointed to where the children where crouched in the darkness, hiding. O'Hara ran over to them, flashing her light over their faces. She covered her mouth in horror at their expressions and how wounded and bloodied they looked.

Lassiter went over and carried the boy who was limping so badly now he could barely walk. O'Hara, overcoming her pity and shock at such an atrocity, tried to take the girl riding piggy back on the oldest girl, but she would have none of it. She clung to the girl hanging around her neck, and vise-versa. If they wanted to support each other, who was O'Hara to get in the way of it? Lassiter took lead with O'Hara bringing up the rear, both their weapons loaded and ready. The pace was much quicker now, and the children seemed to realize that their freedom was approaching, and became anxious.

They passed through several more warehouses, staying in the shadows and along the walls. They reached the fence, and it couldn't have been sooner. The children were exhausted. Most were seven or eight years old, dehydrated, and wounded. They didn't have enough energy to scale a fence, let alone walk for another few hundred feet. As everyone was catching their breath, O'Hara made a call on her cell.

"The squad cars will be here in a minute, backup in eight." O'Hara's stomach muscles were just about to unclench from nervousness when a shot was fired directly at her. The bullet zipped past her hand that was clutching her phone and clipped the fence.

"Down!" Lassiter shouted, though it was unnecessary because the children were already hitting the ground and covering their ears and eyes in terror. He dropped the boy he was carrying behind him to shield him from the gun fire. He aimed at the lumbering figure where the shots were coming from and fired off his last four rounds. The man in the far distance stumbled and fell to his knees. Lassiter couldn't tell if the man was too injured to fight or dead, but he wasn't shooting at them anymore, and that was the important thing.

Red and blue flashing lights came from over the dirt hill over the fence, and two patrol cars came speeding down the slope. Pulling the children away from the fence, O'Hara and Lassiter waved them down. One car stopped just before the perimeter of the fence, and the other didn't even slow down. It plowed into the fence head on, bending the cheap metal and flattening it to the ground. The sirens weren't on, so the shooting in the distance could still be heard. They herded the children behind the squad cars, awaiting the ambulance.

They didn't have to wait long. The ambulance came riding up like a glorious chariot and the children were immediately swarmed with EMTs. Several other patrol cars joined in and it became a loud congregation of sirens and flashing lights. Lassiter began barking out orders for the whole harbor to be sweeped, who was to be brought in, and what to look for. Bulletproof vests were donned on every officer entering the harbor, and it sounded like the smugglers were putting up a fight. Distant gunfire was a constant, and soon choppers where hovering overhead.

There were several ambulances carting off the rescued children, and legions of cop cars arriving. There must have been more illegal activities going on than Lassiter ever expected, because there were fights erupting everywhere. He swore he even felt a grenade go off. Somewhere, amongst the shooting, explosions, fire, and police, was Shawn Spencer.

"O'Hara," Lassiter called, hunting her down as she too was giving instructions, and cornered her. "I need you to give this to Vick right now." He handed her a small instrument.

"I can't leave now, are you insane? We've got stuff to do!" She had to yell because the helicopters were nearing the ground and the volume of everything was drowning out their conversation.

"This is the most important thing you can do right now." O'Hara looked crushed at his command. "It's not to protect you," he reassured "I trust you as a cop and as a human being." O'Hara's mouth opened in surprise at Lassiter's uncharacteristically kind and personal words. "But this is filmed footage of Blaine committing murder. I need you to give this to Vick right now! I'm trusting you."

"Okay," she readily agreed, "and thank you!" She stopped some uniformed officer on the radio and took his car, pulling out and racing down back to the road to the station. It was quickly becoming chaos all around. Officers running back and forth, clearing spots and making arrests to almost anyone in the vicinity. Fires were springing up in many of the warehouses, either accidental or intentional to destroy evidence. Lassiter, wiping his filthy hands on his dirty stained tee, opened a patrol car door and rooted around in the glove box for an extra clip. Loading his previously empty gun, he made sure it was all in working order before crossing back over the crushed fence in search of Shawn.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Later Days (5/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Beta: VZG

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

Discharging a weapon with intent to kill, dodging bullets, and fighting hand to hand was in the police job description, but didn't happen nearly as often as everyone thought. Lassiter was finding it odd he did not seem to be too concerned that he had done all the previous things mentioned in the last four hours. Scowering warehouses, ships, boats, bars, and every other place that lined the whole smoggy part of the coast was exhausting and frustrating. Grilling every officer he ran into if they had seen Shawn, or an obnoxious blond man wearing a dirty orange shirt. Locals of the areas were scattered amongst the smugglers and illegals, so everyone was a threat. Those with weapons would use them if they felt they needed to, and of course gunfire was everywhere. Cops shooting at people, people shooting at cops, and people shooting at people.

Twice now he found himself in a scuffle with two or more men trying to chase him off their pier. Flashing his badge did nothing but make them angry, and he ended up breaking one of their noses so he could search for Shawn. The psychic was no where to be found, there was brawling in the streets, and Lassiter just barely ducked in time before a hot round plunged into the damp wood behind him. Gathering his bearings, he was quite a ways from Blaine's ship, behind an old warehouse with the number 22 painted on it. Seeing as how he started out at pier 7, he began to feel extremely worried that he had traveled a lot of ground and had seen neither hide nor hair of Shawn.

"Shit," he mumbled to himself. This was becoming a disaster and no way for him to control it. He had miles of rancid buildings, smoggy shores, and anything else with a roof to search, which was assuming Shawn was in hiding instead of shot, dead, or held captive. Blaine was gone, but it mattered little right now. Finding temporary cover inside warehouse 22, Lassiter wandered the place. Trucks, trolleys, and the ever present odor of dead fish were the only things inside. Lassiter kicked the bumper of a rusted pickup in frustration.

The sky was beginning to lose the stars one by one as it got lighter. The police, the criminals, and Lassiter had spent most of the night fighting and running. The gunfire was finally fading out, and sirens and alarms were coming closer. Lassiter decided to make his way to the main street again, hoping Shawn had made it to safety and was waiting to give him a hard time about stupidly rushing back into the crossfire without even a vest. There was a shuffling noise coming from the across the floor. Lassiter paused, listening hard. It was footsteps, but whoever was approaching was approaching slow and most likely limping or dragging. It could be an unfortunate bystander who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, or one of the smugglers shooting at anything in a uniform. Lassiter had the fortune of civilian clothes, but he was taking no chances. Putting his back to the wall, he waited for the person to cross the entrance to the warehouse. Slowly and cautiously, Shawn looked around the corner. His left eye was shut because he had a deep cut above it and it had bled messily. He had large bloodspots soaked into his orange shirt, along with oil, mud, and street water.

"Spencer!" Lassiter gasped.

"Lassiter?" Shawn voiced, unbelieving.

The relieved smile on Lassiter's face abruptly dropped and he urgently shouted "Spencer!" Shawn, thinking he was in trouble, was utterly confused when Lassiter reached for the front of his shirt and pulled with all his might. He pulled so hard they both tumbled backwards, but not before a shot blew up the wooden doorframe right next to Shawn's head, sending splinters flying.

Roughly shoving Shawn over and covering his head with his free hand, Lassiter fired several rounds into the man behind them. The man's neck geysered blood like it was under pounds and pounds of pressure, spraying thick fluid everywhere. The large rifle in his hands looked like he took it off a decorative plaque, and it fell down uselessly to the ground along with its owner. Lassiter panted, his muscles pulled taunt and jerky. Shawn was almost face down on the dusty floor, Lassiter's hand still protecting his head. He groaned and slapped Lassiter's hand, rubbing his forehead where it hit the ground. Lassiter stood and walked over to the man he shot.

He was dead, obviously, but Lassiter had to look closely at the man he just killed. He was relieved that he recognized the man as on of the guards on the ship's ramp and felt slightly nauseated that he was glad he killed him. At least he died quickly, his ruptured jugular hung outside his neck, and even some of the spine could be seen. He turned his attentions away from the bleeding man lying on the ground to the bleeding man standing up.

"Are you okay?"

Shawn mutely nodded yes, shaken at seeing his second death ever. He had a dark smudge over his cheek and his blood was wet and fresh.

"Get away from the door." Lassiter commanded, moving briskly to settle his nerves and to get out from the open. They both entered the warehouse, much brighter now that the sun was rising. The police sirens were blaring just a few feet away on the other side of the building. "Let me look at that."

Shawn sat down on the edge of a wooden crate, watching the open door while Lassiter pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. "All this and a doctor too?" he chided, accepting and appreciating the help. Lassiter carefully dabbed at Shawn's open wound, wiping away what dirt and blood he could before applying pressure.

"You are such an idiot," he said conversationally. His whole hand covered Shawn's left eye to hold the handkerchief in place. "And thank you," he added, after some thought.

"My pleasure." Shawn's voice was tight and dry. He had been running, hiding, fighting, and dodging bullets, fists, knives, and who knew what else for most of the night. He was tired, depressed, hurt, and just wanted to go home and sleep for a thousand years. "How do you do this?" he wondered. Lassiter couldn't decipher what he was asking or follow his train of thought, so Shawn clarified, "The job I mean. Why do you get up and do this every _day_?" Shawn was a laid back, irresponsible slacker who enjoyed every minute of it.

"You know why."

Shawn thought about it, and figured he was right. He _was_ a laid back, irresponsible slacker, but he would do that horrible night over and over again if it saved those children in that cell. Seeing the death and the fear shook Shawn, but he was glad he did what he did. He understood Lassiter a little bit better right then, and felt immense pleasure knowing it.

His body was finally kicking itself into gear and the cut over his eye clotted enough to stop the bleeding. Lassiter held the now bloody rag on for good measure.

"You going to be okay?" Lassiter asked, and Shawn knew he wasn't talking physically. He would feel better once he puked his guts out and got some color back in his face, but for now he was tired and just a little shaken.

"Yeah. I'll be fine."

Lassiter scoffed fondly and leaned in, close enough to inhale Shawn's exhale. "You'd better be," he growled, and kissed him. For as gruff as Lassiter sounded, he kissed surprisingly soft. It wasn't hesitant but it wasn't rough either. Shawn relaxed by degrees into Lassiter's mouth, pulling on his tee to bring him closer. Lassiter used the hand not holding the bloody rag to touch Shawn's neck and run his thumb playfully across his jaw. They broke apart and Lassiter resumed attending to Shawn's wound like nothing had happened.

"It looks worse than it is. Head wounds bleed like a stuck pig."

Shawn gave a lopsided grin, just enough in tune with his shallow side to say, "Its not going to scar is it?"

A parade of bootsteps intruded on them. Several officers rushed in, guns drawn, and surrounded the two men. Lassiter held up his badge and they scattered to search the building. One approached and gave Lassiter the lowdown on the situation. The docks had been searched and anyone with a weapon or causing trouble were booked and hauled off to be processed. Only a select few would face trial, but that wasn't unusual for massive arrests. Several bodies were found that had to be explained, and Lassiter was cleared on two accounts of self-defense. Being Head Detective of Santa Barbara's Police Department, he did not have to give a statement.

He gave orders and borrowed one the radios, presumably talking to Vick. It was possible she was even in the fray down at the docks, but more likely in her office handling the fiasco. It didn't matter where she was, her volume was as loud over the radio as it would be if she were standing right next to Lassiter lashing into his ear. Shawn could hear most of it even with all the noise around him. She yelled a lot about being irresponsible, dangerous, and Gung-Ho-ish, but Shawn could tell she was secretly pleased. Children saved, bad guys caught red handed, Head Detective and Civilian Psychic safe and sound (safe being used loosely). The whole caught on camera thing personally impressed Shawn. He had seen enough spy movies to fully appreciate it. Lassiter replied to whatever Vick had asked (some cop kept telling him to get to the ambulance but he was busy damn it!), and then gave the radio back.

Lassiter trudged back, the long last few days dragging on him. "Let's get that looked at," he motioned to Shawn's shredded face, "and then we can go."

"Go as in go home, or go as in go to the station and talk for two hours to the chief and the media and the whole station about every little detail." Shawn raised his hand with an added, "I vote for going home."

"Home," Lassiter replied, which was good because if he said station then Shawn was going to murder a few people. Shawn found his own internal thoughts sickly hilarious and chuckled darkly. Lassiter just gave him a weird look and led him toward the ambulance.

* * *

The ride home was the most enjoyable thing Shawn could think of. The EMTs rinsed and washed his cut, recommending he drive to a hospital for stitches. Every singe medic in the area were too busy treating bullet wounds, burns, and a variety of other serious injuries to stop and stitch shut a head wound. Lassiter refused to let Shawn drive in his condition, and Shawn gave in remarkably easy. When Lassiter questioned it, Shawn replied that after Lassiter had handcuffed him to the pole, he picked the lock and hitchhiked to the coast. Needless to say they took Lassiter's car.

Lassiter refused to take Shawn straight home. They pulled off into the nearest hospital, now packed with people from the docks, and waited. Lassiter asked how long the wait would be, and the nurse said as long as needed. Shawn, waiting in a chair with an open gaping wound, pissed Lassiter off so much he did something he swore he never would do. He played the fact he was an important person and pushed the fact he was an officer of the law. After some yelling (and possible threats) about how the police station's finest contact was being treated, Shawn was in a sterile room getting eight stitches in his head. The swamped doctor gave Shawn several extra strength pain relievers and a tube of special antibiotic and sent them out; the rest of their wounds would heal on their own. Just before they exited the door, the doctor grabbed Lassiter's arm and turned it over.

"You should be treated for this, it looks like a serious bite," he commented, examining the deep teeth impressions in his arm. Lassiter mumbled something unintelligible, gave Shawn a dirty look, and left. The whole ordeal only took a few minutes, and Shawn jokingly gushed to Lassiter about how awesome he was. Lassiter only grumbled in response.

They were finally, _Finally_ on their way home. Shawn scratched at his stitches and Lassiter told him to stop fussing with it.

"But it itches," he complained. It wasn't a stabbing pain because he crunched up most of the painkillers the doctor prescribed, but more a constant throbbing that prickled his skin and irritated every possible nerve ending around the area.

Lassiter jerked Shawn's arm away from toiling at his stitches and threatened, "It'll scar." Shawn moped and left it alone, willing the staples to stop tightening his skin and making everything uncomfortable. "We're almost there," he pointed out, pulling onto the inner town streets.

"Uh…Lassy," Shawn began, "I don't want to mention your condition of being directionally challenged right now, but I live that way." He thumbed his way in the opposite direction.

"You're staying at my place tonight." Lassiter did a double take at Shawn's open mouth. "Because of your head wound," he clarified. Shawn coughed to hide the smile that was creeping up his face.

"Of course," he commented offhandedly, waiting till Lassiter's attention went back to the road before mouthing "Thank you" to the brightened sky. Soon enough Lassiter pulled into his driveway. Sprinklers were running on every lawn on the street, creating little rainbow arches to line their path. Lassiter unlocked his door and kicked off his shoes before even entering the doorway. Shawn followed suit, his sneakers matching Lassiter's because they were both so covered in bloody mud their original color was masked.

Making a beeline for the kitchen, Lassiter filled two glasses with ice water and offered one to Shawn. Shawn drank deeply, letting the water cool his cracked and dry esophagus. Lassiter drank his whole glass and refilled it before Shawn was even half finished with his. Feeling ridiculously competitive, he chugged the rest of his glass, almost choking. Water spilt down his chin and the coldness felt incredibly refreshing.

"Don't kill yourself," Lassiter warned, smiling into his glass.

"Just because I'm not Irish," Shawn shot back, wiping his mouth and chin with his arm, which was a big mistake because he was filthy, and left a little wet smear of dirt.

Lassiter left the kitchen and ruffled around in a storage closet, shouting, "What does being Irish have to do with chugging?"

Rolling his eyes, Shawn left his now empty glass on the counter and followed the sound of Lassiter's voice. "Because what are the Irish known for best?"

"Potatoes," he guessed.

"Drinking."

"Close enough." Lassiter was barefoot in the hall, and handed Shawn a towel. "You can shower first. The couch folds out into a bed," he explained.

Watching with wry amusement, Shawn calculated Lassiter's real agenda. "You really want me to sleep in your living room?"

Where Shawn expected Lassiter to answer in an awkward mumbled response something like, "Well, my bed is always available," he instead said matter-of-factly, "You could always sleep on the floor."

"I thought…" Shawn made vague hand gestures to the distance between him and the detective. Lassiter looked confused. Changing strategies, Shawn approached Lassiter and kissed him gently. "I want to sleep with you."

"Mmmhm," Lassiter mumbled, his Adam's apple pulsing as he swallowed. "You're hurt, and tired," he glanced at the clock, "and it's almost six in the morning," he protested weakly. Shawn glared and kissed him again, hard. Lassiter kissed back, tilting down slightly and placing his hands on Shawn's hips. "Are you sure?" He questioned, warm and breathing and so close. "I don't think it is the best time for…fraternizing."

"I have had the worst, most terrifying night of my whole life. I am in monstrous amounts of pain and I want to feel good at least for a little while. I want life**-**affirming sex and I want it now. And**—**" Shawn ripped off Lassiter's shirt, throwing it dramatically over his shoulder, "you want it too." He grabbed Lassiter's ass and ground their hips together. Their respective belt buckles ground into each other. Shawn ran his hands up Lassiter's chest, enjoying the resulting shutter.

The detective's internal mental debate seemed to end in his favor. He kissed Shawn, groaning into his mouth while Shawn scraped his nails lightly down his chest and stomach, latching onto the front of his pants. Shawn bent his head to lick a peaked nipple, Lassiter's chest hair brushing his cheek. Pulling away quickly, Shawn wiped his mouth and grimaced.

"We should shower first," Shawn commented. Lassiter realized he was still very filthy, and smelt like the sewer. Shawn didn't smell much better, and had a streak of dried dirt across the underside of his forearm. Shawn unceremoniously dragged Lassiter into the bathroom, never loosing his grip on the detective's pants. The bathroom connected to the master bedroom, and was large and clean with a tub and separate shower. Even while distracted, tearing off his own shirt and unzipping Lassiter pants, Shawn took notice of every detail of the place. The lonely blue toothbrush in the cup on the sink, the towel rack with plain white towels hanging on it, and he fondly appreciated Lassiter's paranoia for having a sharp pocket knife sitting innocently on the ceramic back of the toilet in easy reach.

"This is an unfair race," Lassiter complained as Shawn pulled down his pants to his ankles, revealing his underwear.

"Then catch up," he taunted back. Lassiter leered and pinned him to the wall, one hand on Shawn's thigh right next to his groin and the other leisurely unzipping his pants. Shawn clenched his jaw and fought against moaning. Crouching down almost to one knee, he licked around the large bruise on Shawn's chest, pressing gently to the broken blood vessels. The resulting gasp was hard to place as pain or pleasure. Lassiter rubbed his thumb in circles perilously close to Shawn's rising erection. His jeans now open; Lassiter slipped one hand inside, pressing Shawn's cock through the gray boxers briefs underneath. Shawn thrust his hips forward and gasped. "Off," he commanded his own underwear, wiggling out of his remaining clothes. While Shawn struggled out of his socks, Lassiter took the opportunity to turn on the shower faucet to hot. The mirrors quickly fogged over and the soft light overhead dimmed.

Checking the temperature of the spray, Lassiter felt a strong tug on the back of his underwear, and an enthusiastic Shawn Spencer behind him pulled them down. Hands on his back pushed him into the slightly too hot water.

"Yikes!" Lassiter yelped, fumbling with the knob. It turned freezing for a moment before warming up to the perfect temperature. Shawn occupied himself with pouring a healthy amount of Irish Spring body wash (he laughed at the irony) into his open palm. Rubbing his foamy hands together, he lathered up large amounts of soap and proceeded to message Lassiter's tense shoulders and back. Lassiter hummed and leaned back on Shawn's hands.

"Christ, Spencer. Where'd you learn to do this?"

Shawn smirked at the compliment, and reminded himself he was going to have to work on the whole getting called by his first name thing with Lassiter. "I was a masseuse for a while in Oregon." He dug his fingers into a particularly taunt spot and Lassiter tensed. "Relax," Shawn coaxed, turning him around so they were facing each other. Shawn felt Lassiter's whole chest, curling his fingers into his thick chest hair and rubbing thumbs over ribs and nipples. Shawn never would have thought he would enjoy this as much as he was. Lassiter was more lean and muscled than he looked, his ribs showing and his abdominal muscles rigid. His hipbones were sharp, and his cock was hard and dark and curving over his belly. Shawn watched fascinated as water swept away the suds and streamed down the length of his body. It was like a full course buffet ready for consumption, and he didn't even have to pay.

Lassiter moved so he was no longer blocking the water from reaching Shawn. Slick with water and residual soap, Lassiter pressed his wet body against Shawn's, and leaned down to kiss him. The blade of his tongue swept Shawn's lower lip, and he abandoned it momentarily to kiss him softly on the neck. It was his turn to explore Shawn's body, tracing fingertips across collarbones, spine, and shallow dips on tan hips. It was almost more inquisitive than it was sexual, and Shawn moaned at the very thought. He kissed him deeply, opening his mouth and begging Lassiter to do the same. By now they were both breathing very heavily, lips dragging every time they parted to take lungfuls of air.

Unable to wait any longer, Shawn dropped to his knees. He licked up Lassiter's cock from root to tip, broadening out his tongue and closing his lips around the head. Lassiter made a sound like he was choking and carded his hands through Shawn's hair. He could tell Lassiter was restraining himself from thrusting, his thighs tightening and hips forced still. The water ran down Lassiter's arms and neck, protecting Shawn from being soaked while he worked Lassiter's erection.

Hollowing out his cheeks, he took him as far as he could. He was rather proud of his mastery of the gag reflex, and used it to his full advantage. Shawn alternated from sucking hard to lapping the thick underside, all the while changing angles and moving back and forth. Lassiter panted shallowly above him, continually touching whatever skin he could reach. He ran his hands over Shawn's shoulders, down the back of his neck, and cupped his chin. One hand rubbed his cheek, the other holding tight to his blond spiky hair.

Shawn put his hands to good use, holding Lassiter steady and gently grabbing his balls. He was sure to scrape some of his stubble against them; confident Lassiter had never felt anything like that before. The detective's growl was cut off, like he was fighting against making any noise an all. Lassiter was too quiet for Shawns liking, so he hummed, vibrating his throat. It did not disappoint and Lassiter moaned loudly, hips jerking. Strong hands shook Shawn's shoulders, and the detective's breathing became erratic.

"I'm…" Lassiter exhaled, trying again. "God, Shawn, just," he warned, unable to even spit out a coherent sentence. The last thing Shawn wanted was this to end. He let up to suck only the tip, tonguing the slit and tasting the pre-ejac that seeped out. He palmed the rest of Lassiter's impressive length and stroked lightly, not nearly hard or fast enough. Full body shivers shook the detective and he stopped resisting and just thrust further into Shawn's mouth, frustration and the borderline painful erection killing him. Shawn grabbed Lassiter's ass and encouraged him, deep throating and sucking hard, his bottom teeth grazing the thick vein. Lassiter came so hard he almost pitched forward. He could feel Shawn's throat constrict as he swallowed, twice, then gave one last swipe over the swollen and sensitive head.

"Hmm" Shawn mumbled, keeping his hands on Lassiter's ass as he stood up. Lassiter leaned against the warm tile, giving up the spray of water to Shawn. He washed up quickly while Lassiter rested. Shawn was still hard, though he seemed to pay it little mind.

"Come here," Lassiter beckoned, lazy and satisfied. He reached down past Shawn's navel and drew his wet palm over the psychic's heated erection. Shawn moaned and braced himself with both hands on either side of Lassiter's head against the tile. Instead of stroking, Lassiter felt the texture and temperature of Shawn's cock. Squeezing and pumping, he made him gasp and moan and beg. He slipped his fingers to intertwine with Shawn's pubic hair delighted that it proved he was a true blond. Twisting his wrist on the upstroke, he made the fake psychic squirm and his dick jump. Lassiter swiped his thumb over the head, spreading the leaking moisture and then jerking him in earnest. He'd never been with a man before, but he wasn't naïve. He knew his way around a penis and was quickly learning how fast he could make Shawn lose it.

Shawn was losing it rather quickly. A litany of Fuck, God, Harder, and Don't Stop poured out of his mouth unrestrained. He thrust himself into Lassiter's hand, breathing desperately, his chest heaving. Lassiter squeezed just one shade to hard, and Shawn led out a pained wheeze. The tip of his cock was so engorged it was almost purple, leaking heavily. Lassiter pumped him rough and quick, from base to head, not slowing even when Shawn groaned and came. His release was hot, spilling over Lassiter's stomach and fist. Shawn had to grab Lassiter's wrist to stop him, his spent dick too sensitive to really enjoy it. He slumped against Lassiter, forcing him to hold his weight up or they would both fall.

"Hey." Lassiter said, rubbing Shawn's neck and kissing his temple, carefully avoiding the stitches just over one of his eyebrows. "Bed?" Shawn nodded, wiping the semen from Lassiter's belly to wash down the drain. He turned off the water and they both stumbled out, exhausted and shaky from the orgasm. After some quick drying with a shared towel, and quick brushing with a shared toothbrush, Shawn flopped into the bed and crept under the covers. Lassiter took a moment to put on some loose pajama bottoms. Shuffling around until they were both comfortable, barely touching except where Shawn's arm was flung over Lassiter's hip, they fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Later Days (6/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Beta: VZG

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

He was on fire. Lassiter struggled against suffocating heat; his chest, arm, and shoulder were burning. There was a heavy pressure pushing him down, sinking him into thick humidity, like hot mud. Something soft tickled his nose. Snorting loudly, Lassiter woke up with a start. Shawn was almost on top of him, cuddling half his body and putting off heat like a stove. Shawn's head was in the junction of his arm and collar; cutting of circulation and his whole arm was tingling and numb. To make it worse, Shawn's stubble was twice as bad as it usually was and stabbing Lassiter's exposed naked skin. He used his free hand to wipe sleep from eyes and grab his alarm clock sitting on his dresser. It was well into the evening because they had slept for most of the day. He was incredibly uncomfortable with a full bladder and was sweating under the combined heat of Shawn and the blankets.

Lassiter's stomach rumbled, empty and pissed off for being ignored for so long. He considered the possibility of slinking out from under the dead weight without waking it. Shawn was drooling comically onto Lassiter's bare skin, breathing deeply and softly. Trying not to wake him, he gently rolled Shawn over, flexing his hand to get blood pumping to it again.

"Hmmhmm?" Shawn muzzled, burying his face into his pillow. He winced and turned his head to the side to avoid putting pressure on the stitches.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered, sliding off the bed and into the bathroom. That done, he headed to the kitchen to see what he could make.

Shawn came stumbling out into the kitchen some time later only wearing a stolen pair of boxers. They just so happen to be Lassiter's favorite pair, and he took fond notice that they were slung indecently low. Shawn had a great body, for a guy, he reasoned. He was tan, athletic, had little hair on his chest. His dark blond fuzz seemed to congregate in a spreading triangle under his navel and lower. Shawn, secretly pleased because Lassiter was checking him out, followed his nose the bacon strips frying on the skillet. There was a whole breakfast cooking: coffee dripping, eggs and bacon sizzling. For a divorced guy he sure knew how to feed himself.

"It'll be done in a moment." Lassiter turned the strips of bacon and they were the perfect amount of burnt. "Have a seat."

"It's so sexy when you go all domestic on me." Shawn skipped the seat in favor of crowding Lassiter's workspace, wrapping his arms around his waist and nuzzling him with his sharp stubble. He sucked on the back of his neck, a dark hickey already in mind.

Lassiter frowned "Aren't you hungry?"

"Famished." He kissed the mark in apology. "Molesting you won't make the food cook slower."

"Might make it burn," Lassiter threatened, but ignored the food anyway to kiss Shawn.

"I like burnt" Shawn said after he pulled away. The eggs were done, and Lassiter piled them onto two separate plates. Toast popped up, and the bacon was fished out of its own boiling grease. To two fully-grown men who hadn't eaten all day and most of the last, it was a feast. Shawn drowned his in ketchup while Lassiter only used pepper.

After breakfast (actually, dinner according to the time of day) and doing the few dishes they used, they meandered back to the master bedroom. Their clothes from the morning were still on the bathroom floor, Lassiter's shirt still in the living room, and the damp towel slung over a lamp. Shawn was only in boxers, and Lassiter in loose pajama bottoms and extremely unconcerned about it. It was dim, and Shawn's bruise was so dark it looked like a large gaping hole under his heart.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Lassiter asked cryptically. Shawn fiddled with his stitches, pulling on them.

"Not really."

"It might help."

"I don't want to!" he snapped. He immediately looked apologetic. "Sorry, just…" Shawn sat at the edge of the bed and covered his face, resting his head on his hands and his arms on his knees. "Growing up, all I got was how to be an officer. What to do, how to handle situations. Keeping myself focused and sharp. Shit." Lassiter quietly sat next to him, listening. "I didn't want that life. I still don't. Dealing with those kinds of people, and what they did to those kids…I can't do that all the time. I don't want to become like my dad. I don't want something…that one thing that will define my life."

"I get it. The constant job changes, the moving around, your being 'Psychic.'" Shawn could feel the quotations in the air. "Hell, even me."

Shawn defended, "No, not you." Lassiter doubted him; his past history of flighty partners was not in his defense. "Trust me, I haven't worked this hard for anyone. Ever. You might even be my first third date with the same person."

"We haven't even been on one date Shawn." Lassiter covered Shawn's mouth before he could retort. "I like you," he admitted. "And you like me, but I do not believe I am that much different from everything else in your life."

"Don't get pretentious with me," Shawn growled. "I DO like you, a lot, and don't presume to know how important you are to me. I am not just using you as a source for steady sex while I fill out my allotted time in one place. Damn it!" Shawn was angry, and embarrassed. He could rant and rave about how much this situation was different from all the rest, but he had little to back it up. Lassiter was right to be wary of entering any kind of relationship with him because he had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Shawn could get his fill of Lassy-sex and be on his way. In high school he was voted Biggest Heart Breaker. "I can't say anything to make you believe me, but I mean it when I say you matter…to me. You matter to me a lot."

He straddled Lassiter's lap, kissing him softly. "You can do this Fucked Up Job as long as you want, and I'll help. I'll change my job, my pad, but I won't just up and leave. I promise." It sounded lame to Shawn's own ears, but he was rather inexperienced in this whole long lasting relationship business, and was fumbling along best he could. The most effort he ever put to getting close to someone besides Gus was ordering a Mocha grande and complimenting the cutest person in the room about something miniscule relevant only to them. He couldn't say anything to prove his affection, so he spoke with his actions.

Shawn pulled him into a string of slow superficial kisses, then deepening them. His palms grazed Lassiter's bare chest, feeling the skin move and tighten as he breathed. Lassiter was sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet flat on the ground while Shawn's dangled over the side. Hands kneaded into Shawn's back, relaxing muscles and also holding him in place.

"Scoot back," he requested. Shawn moved off so Lassiter could sit farther up on the bed, his back leaning against the headboard and his legs straight. While he was up, Shawn rooted around Lassiter's nightstand, searching the bottom drawer. He pulled out a condom and bottle of lube and placed them on top, easily in reach. Lassiter swallowed audibly. "I take it you've never screwed a guy before?" Shawn asked, leering.

Lassiter said darkly, "You're the psychic." His natural defense when he was nervous was to become angry.

"No need to be sarcastic." Shawn crawled back onto his lap. His erection was growing steadily, pushing against his cotton boxers. Lassiter absentmindedly ran a thumb across the tip, the fabric darkening with moisture, and Shawn hissed. "We'll go slow," he huskily grunted out, though Lassiter seemed to be the one to picking up the pace. The detective touched him through the slit in the cloth, casually rubbing his fingers up and down the heated length.

"Go slow on your own time," Lassiter joked, and Shawn was happy to comply. He let Lassiter remove his boxers completely, carelessly throwing them across the room. The long pajama bottoms worn by Lassiter were becoming entirely too constricting, and those too were discarded.

The headboard gave little support to Lassiter, who was leaning forward so he could kiss Shawn harder, occasionally tearing away from his mouth to nip at his chest. Shawn was straddling him so he had some height, putting Lassiter in the perfect position to suck and lap at the nipples at face level. "I just have to say," Shawn panted, bracing himself against the wall above the headboard while Lassiter scraped his teeth along a perk hard nipple, "I love your hair like this." Lassiter's usually immaculate hair was a mess. It poked up, and he never styled it that way because he believed it made him look young and inexperienced. Shawn thought it was adorable.

"Shut up," Lassiter said affectionately, kissing Shawn's bruise very lightly. Shawn was pressed close and his cock was brushing up against Lassiter's belly at every little movement. It was almost torture. Small movements and sweat slicked friction along his straining cock added to his urgency to do something about it. He reached over to grab the lube, flipping the cap and pouring a generous amount onto his fingers. Sweat dripped down his temple to his chin, collecting into a drop and falling onto Lassiter's body below. Lassiter's dick jumped at the sight of Shawn sliding his hand down between his own legs. Breathing deeply, he pushed one finger into himself. "Fuck," Lassiter swore, his cock painfully hard and rubbing the inside of Shawn's spread thighs.

"In a second," Shawn weakly joked, filling his lungs and letting his breath out slowly. He hadn't done this in a while, and it hurt a little to be stretched. He worked slowly, pumping his digit in and out before adding a second. "You going to use that?" Shawn motioned toward the condom lying on the nightstand. Lassiter had to reach over awkwardly because Shawn was immobilizing his bottom half.

He looked over the wrapper. "This is expired." After being divorced and then stupidly dating a coworker, Lassiter found it hard to jump back onto the partner bagwagon. Why buy new condoms when he didn't use the old ones?

"Well at least our children will be beautiful," Shawn said sarcastically. Lassiter figured he had a point and tore the wrapper with his teeth. Rolling it on, he snuck the lube and made sure it was plenty wet. Ready and only a little nervous, Lassiter held Shawn's hips steady. Shawn, panting and sweating and flushed, nodded and took another deep relaxing breath. He positioned himself and sunk slowly down on Lassiter's cock. Shawn believed Lassiter deserved that strut in his step, shifting slightly until he was fully seated on his lap. The detective groaned embarrassingly loud, wondering how he survived so long without the heat and clench of being inside another person. Shawn was concentrating on staying relaxed and calm until the burn passed, rocking slightly and pressing his teeth into Lassiter's skin. He left a few clear lubricant streaks on Lassiter's arm from where he was grasping tightly, and kept adjusting his grip.

The pain subsided, and he raised himself on his knees before sinking back down. Lassiter moaned again, thrusting up as Shawn came down. Pleasure sparked, and Shawn began riding him in earnest, each thrust falling harder and faster than the last. The headboard banged against the wall from their heavy movements so hard that a little paint chipped off. Of course, remodeling was the last thing on Lassiter's mind. He could feel every little movement Shawn made from the inside, from clenching his stomach to gasping for breath. It was hot and tight and Lassiter (usually the quiet one in bed) found himself swearing and cursing and begging Shawn to never stop. He used his hands on the psychic's hips to help guide his movements, assisting him up and down on his aching cock.

Shawn clawed at Lassiter's back, fighting to not scream. His prostate was grazed and he arched dramatically. Figuring this was a good thing, Lassiter thrust up sharply, hitting it directly. Shawn almost came right there, harshly squeezing his own cock to postpone orgasm. He had white droplets of cum gathering at the tip, slicking Lassiter's stomach in a wet line. "I'm going to come," he admitted, almost sounding miserable with a future orgasm.

"Already?" Lassiter questioned, his ragged voice mixed with humor and lust. He let go of Shawn's hips and left him fully seated on his throbbing cock, kissing his deeply and slow, exploring the inside of his mouth. Shawn smiled and let Lassiter kiss him slowly and intimately, recovering slightly. His heart, which was beating so fast and hard it could have ruptured, slowed and evened out. He stayed hard, but the urge to come had passed. "Good, that's good" Lassiter tried not to squirm, to let Shawn calm down so they could keep going, but then the psychic clenched firmly. Lassiter saw stars, bucking his hips up and shoving roughly into Shawn.

"_God __yes_," Shawn moaned, rocking hard. They resumed at an elevated pace, gasping and panting. "Touch me," Shawn begged "Please!" Lassiter wrapped his big hand around Shawn's jerking erection and pumped him in tandem with the rise and fall of his hips. It didn't take long, and he came like a shot as he forced himself down hard on Lassiter's cock. Lassiter fucked him through his orgasm, thrusting into the willing psychic. Shawn kept riding him, rearing himself up and down, spreading his legs and taking him deeper. It was easier now that he didn't have the desperate need to finish, and still felt incredible with the riot of sensation and pleasure creeping up from his spine. He was still even hard.

Lassiter was close. Shawn changed angles and maybe overdid it a little, but then Lassiter groaned and slumped against his chest. They both rested for a bit, too exhausted to move. Shawn finally lifted up off of Lassiter, and tried to hide a wince. "You okay?" Lassiter whispered, soothingly rubbing his warm palms over Shawn's shaking arms and thighs.

"Fine." He knew he would be sore, but figured the end result was totally worth it.

Lassiter touched the spread of cold drying semen on his stomach and grimaced. Shawn took the end of the sheet and wiped up the mess, earning him a mock glare. Lassiter was so mellow; Shawn entertained the idea of doing this at the station next time the detective was in one of his infuriating moods. Everyone at the station would appreciate it; hell, they might even set up a secret hidden mattress and ignore the thumping and moaning if it gave them a cooled off Head Detective. Lassiter busied himself by removing and trashing the condom.

It was late and quiet, the sun already set. The room was cooling down and the smell of sex dissipating. They both laid down flat on the bed, their breathing regulating and endorphins fading. Shawn rolled so he was where he woke up, head on Lassiter's chest, and listened to the constant deep tempo of his heart.

"Should we even pretend we accomplished something today?" Lassiter questioned quietly in the darkness.

Shawn's chuckle cut off to a rumble in his throat. "We could have sex again." Lassiter laughed out loud and kissed Shawn's forehead.

"Maybe later."

"I don't know" Shawn wetly kissed the hickey he gave earlier "You have good stamina for your age."

Lassiter kept one arm behind Shawn's head, offering a hard sort of pillow for the psychic. He twisted his wrist and pulled on a blond spike. "For my age? You're not that much younger than me."

"Young enough for you to feel guilty about screwing me," Shawn pinpointed.

He paused, but only a moment, and rolled over to pin Shawn. "I'll show you guilty." He pressed him into the mattress, one leg between Shawn's thighs. Lassiter did a good job at distracting Shawn from the fact he was just thinking about how much older he was, and how he should be the adult in this situation. Shawn let it go, realizing that no matter what he said or did, Lassiter would think of their current arrangement as something wrong or inappropriate and of course only blame himself. He had a time limit to fully convince the detective that he cared for him enough that he was willing to try to change. Just when things were getting good, Lassiter kissing his lips, neck, chest, nipple, bellybutton, and soon lower, a cell phone rang, obtrusively loud.

"I forbid you to answer that until you've finished what you started," Shawn tried, his hopeful dick putting words in his mouth.

Lassiter pressed his lips to Shawn's in a small, chaste, inaudible kiss. "Can't. Might be the station." He climbed off and dug around in the pockets of his discarded work pants. Shawn watched with mild frustration,giving up any pretense of being polite and blatantly staring sharkishly at Lassiter's ass. Lassiter listened intently to whoever was on the other end, and gave a few terse affirmatives. He flipped his phone shut and began to get dressed.

"Whatever it is, they can handle it. Jules needs some action, and Vick is just itching to tear out some throats. Come back to bed." With Lassiter's back to him, he tried again, sounding as pathetic and sexy as possible. "Please?"

Lassiter turned, zipping up his pants and looping his belt. He rummaged in his closet and pulled out a dark blue button-up shirt and matching tie. "Get dressed, you'll want to come too."

Shawn was immediately suspicious. "You're actually inviting me to go? No more tying me to fence posts, mailboxes, or placing me in temporary custody?"

"It's Blaine," he said seriously, tying his tie with quick jerky movements. "He's held up in his office with a hostage and a gun; some idiot let it slip we had a tape." Shawn touched his stitches again, another headache well on its way.

"You drive."

* * *

They bypassed the station and headed directly to the center of town. There were police, SWAT, and curious onlookers everywhere. Police tape and barricades cut off alleys, streets, and surrounded one building in particular. Blaine's own office building was the center of the excitement. It seemed like the choppers from the coast event before merely flew over to join the fray below. It was crowded, noisy, and almost everyone in a uniform was heavily armed. SWAT trucks peppered the street, its inhabitants spreading out in an orderly fashion, guns drawn. Lassiter was sure to park a while away, allowing several officers to rush him and tell him the situation. Thomas Blaine, armed, possible more than one hostage, completely surrounded, no way out.

The only way it could have been worse news if someone were already shot or dead. Shawn stayed back and let Lassiter work. By work he meant shout a lot and call everyone incompetent idiots. Blaine was cornered, desperate, and willing to shoot everyone and everything. He was Head Detective, which did not give him jurisdiction over a hostage crisis, but he was just so fortunate to be the only cop that Blaine wanted to talk to.

"Carlton," Blaine drawled over the phone, annoyance in his voice.

Lassiter licked his lips before addressing, "Thomas," politely on the other end. He was standing in the street, leaning on the hood of a squad car, flanked by the SWAT captain and negotiator, in 97 degree California evening heat.

"You know," Lassiter could hear a squeal of a chair wheel over the line, "I am a little disappointed in you Detective. I was hoping for our next meeting to be somewhere less public, more private."

"I do live to disappoint. Now let's say we get on to your demand list and finish this as quickly as possible." Frantic waving arms distracted Lassiter for a moment. The negotiator covered the mouthpiece of the phone with his hands, spitting at the detective for how he was incorrectly handling the situation. "Can you hold on for a sec?" Lassiter requested into the phone, jerking the negotiator's hand away. "What?"

"Don't make him feel threatened! We do this by the books!"

It all but lasted two seconds before Lassiter lost all patience, cocked his fist, and punched the man square in the face. Shaking out his hand, he spoke back into the phone, "So you have that list of demands yet?"

"Cocky," came the arrogant reply. "But yes, actually. Seeing as how it's so rude to discuss such matters over the phone, I request you come up here to speak face to face. I don't think I have to mentioned unarmed," he added as an afterthought.

"Do you promise not to shoot me?" Lassiter asked, playing the unafraid carefree card.

There was a laugh on the line before the promised, "Of course," which would have to do.

"Hold this," Lassiter commanded. He dropped his holster and gun on the negotiator who was currently cradling his nose and blinking furiously. The SWAT captain wisely stood out of the detectives way. Shawn, watching the whole exchange, ran to stop Lassiter before he broke the yellow tape to enter the building.

"Wait!" He called, grabbing Lassiter by the elbow. "You sure?"

There was a pause before Lassiter answered. "Yeah. Pretty sure." The psychic went for an encouraging smile but it only looked worried. "I just want you know Shawn," Lassiter began, faltering a little, "that I…well. You know."

"Yeah," Shawn said. "Me too."

It was as close to a confession of love as they would get and they would have kissed if they weren't surrounded by people and cameras. With one fleeting look back, Lassiter entered the building. Shawn scratched his stubble and focused on slowing his agitated heart. There was a distant shouting in the background. Covered by helicopters, sirens, screaming, traffic, and all other noise pollution, the voice was quiet. Shawn took a curious glance around and spotted O'Hara in the distance, shoving her way past paramedics and officers, shouting his name.

"Jules? What are you doing here?" he shouted, running closer.

O'Hara fixed a strand of her hair that was blowing loosely in the breeze, flushedpresumably from running around the whole lot. "Working. Where is—" She paused, looking him up and down "What are you wearing?"

Shawn looked down at his attire. "Er," he stammered, quickly thinking up a good lie for why he was wearing Lassiter's pants, shirt, socks, even underwear (though she couldn't see). The only things on him that were actually his own were his filthy sneakers. He and Lassiter had never really got around to doing laundry. "Doesn't matter," he deflected, shifting the question "Lassiter went in. He's going to try to talk Blaine down." O'Hara gasped and scrutinized the building like she could see through its walls. "Where's Vick?"

"She's not here" O'Hara said wearily. "She's supervising the other squads arresting Mount, Connie, and the rest. So far they haven't put up a fight. Blaine's the only one who realized we can actually put them away for good."

"Comforting." Shawn looked around confused, squinting at the upper floors of the building.

O'Hara watched him with peaked interest. "What?" she asked.

"It doesn't make sense. Blaine holding up his office surrounded by police with no escape? He's just making the situation more difficult and harder for his lawyers to weasel him out of charges." Shawn rubbed the back of his neck in irritation. Something was wrong and he couldn't put his finger on it. Lassiter was running up stairs to meet a deranged man unarmed, and there was nothing he could do to help. "It just bothers me."

"It doesn't matter how good his lawyers are, we have the tape of him murdering a man in cold blood. He's going down and taking several people with him."

There were only a few times in Shawn's entire life where his brain ran so fast he had to stop thinking to organize it all. Time virtually stopped as brain neurons jumped, skipped, and floated across a wide plane crammed into a tight pressurized skull. He already had a headache, and he could feel it expanding. He touched his temples and grimaced.

"What's wrong Shawn?" O'Hara put a concerned hand on his shoulder. He was too busy scanning his memory to answer. The building directly across from Blaine's already had strategically placed SWAT snipers. There was a great window in his office that was bowed outward. The hostage was in the way or they would have already shot the man and this would all be over. They had an officer inside, hostage was in hit range, and everything was being done by the books. Blaine's biggest danger right now weren't the police, it was his own people, and now it had become Lassiter's biggest danger.

Figuring he had no time to spare, Shawn took off at a sprint toward the other building, O'Hara screaming at him to wait.

* * *

Lassiter, running up flights of stairs (the elevators had been closed) grumbled in anxiety. He could be sarcastic and menacing and bullheaded as much as he wanted, but the facts were if he ran in there and Blaine shot him in the face, he would die. He was unarmed with no reinforcements, and adding to the hostage count. He had to handle this situation with as much grace and patience as he could muster, and he was quickly running out of both. The emergency stairs led to the main hall joining Blaine's office to the rest of the floor. The only sound down the long corridor was the whirling of the helicopters outside. Lassiter knocked several times on the door, announcing his presence.

"Come in Detective," came Blaine's neutral voice. Lassiter opened the door slowly, hand still on the knob. Blaine was standing in the far back; his arm wrapped around the neck of a young woman with his gun pointing at her head. She had a nametag, Sec. White, and was crying quietly.

"Who's the girl?" Lassiter carefully asked, leaving the door open as he entered.

Blaine shrugged, pressing the barrel to lightly scrape her scalp. "Meet my personal secretary, or to put simply, no one of real importance. Jacket please." Lassiter grudgingly removed his jacket, turning to show that he did not have a weapon. "Normally I'd pat you down but I have my hands a bit full." Blaine let go of the girl to open a drawer and pull out a pair of handcuffs. He threw them at Lassiter, and they landed with a clang at his feet. "Put those on, in back please."

Complacently, he put them on, his hands connected behind his back. "This isn't one of your greatest plans Thomas," Lassiter commented.

"Cute." Blaine pushed Ms. White to face the window, ordering her to stand there. Now he was free from holding her and she blocked him from the sights of the SWAT shooting team across the way.

"The tape was a bluff" Lassiter lied. "I must say I was surprised that you bought it."

"Don't take me for an idiot Carlton," he scolded. "If it was a bluff I would have allowed you bunch of arrogant assholes to hold me over in jail for a few hours and then sued you for wasting my time." Blaine slowly approached Lassiter, gun cocked and pointing between the detective's eyes. "I don't know how you got it, but I know you did." He pressed the cold steel to Lassiter's forehead. "Kneel," he commanded. Lassiter fell to his knees, glaring daggers. Blaine just smiled and cracked his gun across the detective's face, splitting his lip and sending blood droplets everywhere.

Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut, clamping his mouth to muffle the groan. Blood flowed from his lip and mouth to soak his shirt and Blaine's expensive carpet. He spat red and growled out, "Let the girl go. You only need one." Which was true. Blaine only needed one hostage, and having the Head Detective of the Santa Barbara police was the best hostage he could ask for.

He seemed to consider it for a moment before saying, "No," very gleefully, and pistol-whipped Lassiter again.

He accidentally bit down on his own tongue and felt seeping copper warmth flood his mouth. The skin over Lassiter's cheekbone turned blotchy before deepening into a ruddy red and blue color. "Are you going to do this all day? Because I have prior engagements," Lassiter mumbled through the blood streaming out of his mouth.

Blaine seemed to find this incredibly amusing, which was really unnerving to the detective. Why was he being so calm when he was cut off from escape? The plan was for him to make demands, let the hostage go, and then be chased until he was inevitably caught. Blaine had yet to make any demands, and only seemed to want Lassiter up in his officer to torture him.

"I can tell what you're thinking right now" Blaine seemed to think it was a time for theatrics, mimicking Lassiter's gruff annoyed in-charge voice, "Why isn't he quivering in his boots? We have him surrounded with no place to go!" He chuckled. "How did you think I knew the tape was real?" he whispered in Lassiter's ear.

Lassiter's fear must have shown on his face, but Blaine misinterpreted it to believe he was afraid because of the information he just told him. Blaine believed he got the news from inside the police. Lassiter was ninety nine percent sure the tape was sent directly to Vick, who knew what to do with it. That meant someone gave Blaine information that they themselves weren't sure on, to make him resist arrest. They must have promised safety to Blaine, which explained his calm demeanor. What it really meant to the detective was that this whole desperate last second setup was so they could murder Blaine, therefore saving themselves from being dragged under when the tycoon fell himself. Lassiter needed to get him and the secretary out now. Someone was planning on killing everyone in the room and then getting away in the confusion.

'_Shit__'_ Lassiter thought, his options dwindling quickly. "You're in danger. Like, right now."

Blaine scoffed, "You're going to have to try harder than that I'm afraid."

There was a little _thwip_, and Blaine's white Gucci French cuff shirt turned a brilliant shade of red.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Later Days (7/7)

Author: Wolfscythe

Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter, Some Gus/Juliet

Rating: NC-17 overall

Length: 35,260 overall

Beta: VZG

Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. I only borrowed them for a short period and returned them in pristine condition.

* * *

In high school Shawn was on the long distance track team for about a month. He could do it, sure, but he lacked motivation and commitment, qualities that still persist today. Huffing and wheezing, he regretted counting sex as exercise and never bothering with cardiovascular workouts. It didn't mean he was slow though. He vaulted over a wooden barricade, startling some officers who were milling about. They couldn't catch up to the sprinting psychic, shouting at him to stop. Shawn plowed through the doors and up the stairs, taking them two and even three at a time.

His lungs ached and his legs burned as he forced himself up flight after flight, watching the numbers climb. He couldn't risk the elevators cause they would just tell everyone which floor he was on. Surely the cops on the floor already informed the SWAT members in the building and were standing guard around their sniper friends. Shawn had no reason to bother the SWAT snipers, but had someone else in mind. He knew someone was in this building specifically to kill Blaine, not that he cared much, but most likely was going to kill Lassiter as well.

Running at a slower more exhausted pace, Shawn exited the stairwell, fanning out into the open corridor. It was deserted, the people most likely evacuated. The SWAT team would be several floors higher to have a better vantage point. The assassin would be lower to be directly across the window in Blaine's office, having a wide range in which to fire.

Looking into offices, Shawn noticed a button on the floor. It was black, and the threads on it had been torn, like it was ripped off, but the button looked like it was too large to be on a shirt. Cautiously entering the room, Shawn poked around. He looked under the desk and in the file cabinets. Opening a small storage closet, a full-grown man rolled out of it.

"Holy sh—" he almost shouted, covering his mouth. The man in the closet was only in his underwear and socks. He was alive at least upon closer inspection, just unconscious. "Shit," he whispered, knowing why there was an almost naked man in some closet. Shooting out the door, he raced down the hall. If Shawn was going to fire a bullet out a window into another building at a small target, he would do it from a certain angle. Looking out each office window to approximate distance as he ran quietly, he came upon the room that would be the best place. He took a deep breath before kicking the door open.

He was just in time to watch the man in stolen SWAT clothes fire off a round and chamber another one. With little regard for his personal safety, Shawn launched himself on the assassin. The gun the man was wielding was long and heavy, the scope large and cumbersome. There was no way for him to whip the gun around to use it against Shawn, who had the leverage to wrestle him to the ground. They tussled like girls at first, pulling on clothes and whatever was in reach. Shawn was on top of the man's back, going for his neck, or chest area; in fact, he really didn't know what he was doing. Exposure to fighting for his life was kind of new. The assassin on the other hand knew what he was doing.

He rolled over, pinning Shawn to the ground. Raising his arm he elbowed Shawn over his previous bruise from Lassiter. Choking for breath, Shawn curled protectively over his burning chest. The man took his chance and socked him right in the face, actively stunning Shawn and guaranteeing a massive black eye. He punched him again for good measure, aiming at the stitches, and dove for the gun that had been pushed away in their struggling. He swung the long barrel to point at Shawn's face, but a loud authoritive voice shouted, "Freeze!"

Three SWAT members surrounded the assassin, guns drawn, flanked by none other than O'Hara herself. He raised his weapon to point to the ceiling and held his other hand in surrender. O'Hara knelt by Shawn and inspected his injuries.

"You okay?" She gingerly touched Shawn's face, now obscured by blood. His stitches had torn and were bleeding into his eye and down his cheek and chin. "I'll get a medic up here immediately."

"Is Lassiter okay?" Shawn sat up, ignoring the hands trying to push him to lie flat. The SWAT team escorted the man out of the room, leaving them alone and promising to send up help. "Was he shot?" he asked desperately, still woozy from being hit and bleeding everywhere.

O'Hara shook her head. "I don't know. A shot was fired into the building. I was busy following you and radioing ahead." She pushed him down again roughly when he tried to get up. "He's going to be fine, I know it. We'll wait here and he'll call and tell us we're stupid for worrying." She smiled like she actually believed everything was going to be all right, and Shawn felt for the first time what it was like to be a pessimist.

* * *

The second Lassiter realized Blaine had been shot, he jumped to his feet and tackled Ms. White from behind, slamming into her with the bulk of his body. She was screaming, not knowing what was going on. Blaine calmly touched a finger to his chest, pulling it away to see the red. It blossomed over his whole shirt, absorbing quickly into the fibers. He fell to one knee, one hand over the quickly pouring wound, and dropped his gun uselessly to the ground. He was pallid and breathing shallowly, trying to piece together that he was even shot and going into shock.

Lassiter swung his hands under his butt and legs, putting his cuffed wrists in front of him. Ms. White was still screeching and sobbing, face down on the floor with the detective bleeding all over her. He stayed as close to the ground and far away from the window as possible. Blaine was silent, and Lassiter wondered if he died and just hadn't slumped over yet. There was a gurgling from his direction, so Lassiter figured he was alive for now. It was unnerving how there was only one shot fired. There should have been lead pouring into this room.

Instead of lead it was police. The open door let in a flood of armed suited officers, crowding in and pulling Lassiter and the girl out. Medics flew in seconds later with a stretcher and began to stabilize Blaine.

"Get me Detective O'Hara on the phone!" Lassiter barked. "And someone find Shawn Spencer and make sure he's okay." He was almost out the door when he added as an afterthought, "And someone get me out of these handcuffs!" No one was willing to argue with a bloody, beaten, angry Detective Lassiter.

_Thomas Blaine was rushed to the hospital with a bullet in his chest. He was being __stabilized__ for surgery when he went into cardiac arrest and was declared dead shortly after._

_Prominent members of the underground smuggling rings __were__ arrested the same day__ including Sir. Teleski, Terry Mount, Markos Susanna, and Cornelio (Dry) Connie. They all had reputable cases against them and all pleaded guilty to murder, smuggling, theft, insider trading, and a variety of crimes, landing them in prison for terms __of__ fifty years to life. It was the largest takedown in the history of Santa Barbara._

_Mr. Swan was arrested and charged for several crimes, but only found guilty and prosecuted for child pornography. He will be in prison less than ten years._

_The assassin__ believed to be one of Blaine's former associates__ was found guilty of murder in the first __degree__ and faces the death penalty._

_The rescued children from the boat were all hospitalized, returned to their families or placed in foster homes. Some still require therapy, but receive free health and psychological care from the city. The boy who died was buried in a local cemetery plot also sponsored by the city and the neighborhood._

_Simon's whereabouts are unknown._

The next time Lassiter and Shawn saw each other was one hour later at the hospital. Shawn was sitting on his bed and enjoying the strawberry jello one of the orderlies had snuck for him. He was restitched up, drugged to the gills on painkillers, and completely unconcerned for the buzz outside. News reporters clogged the hallways, desperate to speak to anyone. Lassiter fought his way through the crowd before informing the staff of the hospital all reporters had to wait outside the hospital because he needed his rest. It was untrue, he was out and about on his own, but had lost all his patience and did not want to be on the news as the unhinged furious detective. They scattered like chickens.

Lassiter entered the room, closing the door and locking it behind him.

"Hey," he greeted. He was in the same shirt as before. Anyone could tell because it had large bloodstains streaming down the front. His tie was gone (thrown away) and his sleeves rolled up, revealing bruising from the handcuffs. His face was torn up with a fat cut lip and sharp abrasions. "You look good."

Shawn's face was white and one eye almost swollen shut. "Thanks. You too." A large bandage covered his new stitch work, almost cutting sight off in his other eye. "O'Hara told me everything from your end."

"Yeah, same here."

There was an awkward silence stretching between them. Shawn offered his mostly empty jello cup, and Lassiter smiled briefly and shook his head no.

"I'm sorry," Lassiter said suddenly. "For not believing you before when you said you were serious about this relationship thing."

Shawn scooted over and patted the spot next to him. "It's okay. A few months ago and you would have been right about me. I would have totally flaked." Shawn scooted closer once Lassiter sat down, their thighs brushing. He leaned in to kiss Lassiter and missed completely, getting the corner of his mouth. Lassiter turned and kissed him properly.

"Ow," he complained. "Wounded here."

"Oh you big baby." Shawn kissed him again and tasted copper mixing in with his strawberry jello mouth. "Hmmhm," he mumbled, disgusted in the taste. It was in that moment that Gus rapped on the door.

He shouted through the little blinds on the window, "Shawn Spencer I know you're in here!" When the door was not immediately opened he began to rattle the handle. "OPEN!"

Shawn trudged over to unlock the door. Gus stood with his arms crossed like an angry child, but as soon as he saw Shawn's face, his eyes welled up. "Shawn." He wrapped his arms around him in a big hug, crushing him.

"Please. Hurts. Can't breath," he stammered out, being released and clutching his bruise under his shirt. The bruise had grown in size, and had a sickly yellow color around the edges, thanks to Captain Asshole (Shawn's affectionate nickname for the assassin). The doctor had so kindly informed him that his ribs were thoroughly bruised and would take a long painful time to heal.

Gus looked over Shawn and Lassiter with his mouth open. "Are you guys okay?"

"Peachy," Lassiter grumbled, stealing an ice pack meant for Shawn and dabbing his lip with it.

"Carlton means we're going to be fine," Shawn translated, grinning broadly. "What have you been up to these past few days?"

Gus, annoyed and aggravated, replied, "Nothing nearly as life threatening as you have. You promised you would be careful and stay out of the way! If it wasn't for Juliet, I wouldn't even know where you were!"

"Ah, Jules. How have you two been getting on? Being extra friendly I see…" Shawn winked (well, closed his one good eye) and elbowed him playfully.

"Actually," Gus began, "We have been getting to know each other rather…wait. Stop it! I'm lecturing you."

"It doesn't do any good" Lassiter interjected quietly.

"Gus" Shawn tried getting his friends attention.

"Shawn," he shot back.

The door swung open dramatically and they both said "Juliet" in unison. She was holding two manila folders in her arms like they were prizes.

"Discharge papers," she explained. "You and Carlton are free to go. The doctor said we could use the back ambulance exit and avoid all the press." She walked over and dropped the folder on Lassiter's lap. "I must say Carlton, I am surprised at you. You usually clean up your own messes, and now I have to follow you around with a broom."

Lassiter hid his smile. "Thank you O'Hara."

"You're welcome." She smiled sweetly. It wasn't total forgiveness on Lassiter for bailing out on her and doing everything himself, but it was a start. She would rather be on a stretcher being patched up with the rest of them then filing their reports any day. She was confident he wouldn't leave her behind again.

Lassiter gathered up his folder and stiffly headed out. "I'm going to see Vick." Most likely to file his report of the whole incident. "You all go home and get some sleep," he said to everyone, but he was looking pointedly at Shawn.

"Come on," Gus encouraged, holding the door open as O'Hara followed Lassiter out. "I'll drive you home Shawn."

* * *

Lassiter drove back to his house from the station as slowly as possible. He was extremely tired, and figured the slower he drove, the safer he was being. He talked to Vick, who was also suffering from lack of sleep and extreme irritation, about everything that happened. Vick had someone else writing for her so she could have both hands free to throttle and then hug him. It was a great success for the Santa Barbara police department, the largest criminal takedown in history. Press was everywhere wanting coverage, it was late at night, and everyone working just wanted to go to sleep. Unfortunately there was no rest for both the wicked and righteous. It wasn't until the wee hours of the morning that Lassiter finally got to leave.

He unlocked his front door and almost fell into his house from surprise. His lights were on, there was a distinct spicy smell coming from his kitchen, and he could hear someone clanging plates around. He palmed his weapon and took a few cautious steps inside.

"You can put that away, it's only Chinese food" Shawn shouted out toward the entry hallway. Lassiter relaxed and removed his holster to hang it up on his coat rack. The kitchen table was set, chopsticks included, and a whole Chinese buffet was arranged on the counter in little takeout boxes. "I didn't know what you were in the mood for so I ordered one of everything." Hong sue shrimp, egg foo young, lo mein, chicken, beef, pork, fried kalimari, Cantonese noodles, varieties of rice and vegetables, and several other unidentifiable dishes all spread out in a delicious salty heart clogging manner.

Shawn was wearing an apron (not one of Lassiter's) and pajamas underneath. He was barefoot, his hair spiky with moisture from a shower, and grinning like an idiot. Lassiter was never more attracted to him. "I brought clothes so I won't have to steal yours. Toothbrush too" Shawn added.

Lassiter was in shock. The day's events were bleeding out of him and leeching into the wood beneath his feet. "That's good," he mumbled, unsure of how to respond without sounding like a sappy moron. Shawn handed him a plate and chopsticks.

"I'm starving," he stated, digging a healthy heap of white rice onto his plate before moving on to some spicy kung pow chicken and grilled pineapple slices. They ate in peaceful companionship, Shawn talking about Gus and Juliet's blossoming romance, the latest movie he'd seen, and how hot the weather had gotten. They packed up the leftovers (Lassiter was going to be eating Chinese food for a long time) and got ready for bed, crowding over the bathroom sink.

They slept.

They slept for _15 hours_, occasionally getting up to drink some water or use the bathroom. Lassiter would have slept longer if Shawn wasn't putting his frigid feet on the small of his back. He murmured and rolled away, but Shawn's feet were persistent and stretched to kick him in the butt.

"Shawn," he groused, twisting in the sheets to face him. Shawn was sweating; his white tank soaked to his chest. "Shawn," Lassiter said louder, trying to rouse him. He shook his shoulders and Shawn's eyes fluttered open. "Hey guy. Nightmare?" He smoothed down some of Shawn's wild hair, checking his temperature with his hand against his forehead. He wasn't hot enough to be feverish; he was actually cold and clammy to the touch.

Shawn swallowed thickly, sitting up to rub his eye, less swollen and now with a lovely bruise circling it. "M'fine," he mumbled, then yawned. "I wake you?"

"I was going to get up anyway,"Lassiter said, though he did nothing of the sort. He laid flat on his back and closed his eyes, cushioning his head with his hands.

Shawn knew he couldn't go back to sleep after his dream. Seeing Lassiter dead in a pool of his own blood, children screaming, and being locked away in a boat's filthy dead**-**smelling interior and then sinking in vivid detail was enough to scare away any more delusions of rest. Lassiter went to bed with a shirt, but must have removed it sometime in the night so his chest was bare under the covers. Shawn threw back the blankets with a flourish and bent over to slick Lassiter's bellybutton with his tongue.

He laughed and pushed Shawn's face away. Shawn retaliated, giving him a big wet raspberry on his stomach. "What are you? Seven years old?" Lassiter lightly scolded, smearing the saliva left behind.

Shawn leered, giving Lassiter's shorts a sharp tug. He took him to the hilt, taking immense pleasure in the detective's surprised gasp. He worked him to full hardness, swirling his tongue in rapid strokes and twisting shapes on the firming cock. Lassiter pulled his hair a little too hard, and he realized he was pulling him up. Lassiter slipped his hands under Shawn's arms and hauled him up, breathing heavily into his mouth before closing the gap. They kissed for a while, Lassiter lightly touching him.

He curiously tickled Shawn's ribs. Fingers traced veins down his arms, thumbs sliding along his wrists. He pushed Shawn's underwear down past his thighs and pulled his shirt up but not off so it bunched up over his pectorals. Lassiter suddenly hooked his leg around Shawn's back and flipped him on over, effectively pinning him to the mattress. Shawn arched his hips off the bed to grind his erection with Lassiter's.

He was slick from Shawn's mouth, and it felt incredibly good to be rutting against each other, creating friction and heat. He smothered a moan against Shawn's neck, kissing and nipping lightly at the skin. Shawn reached between them to grab Lassiter's cock, pressing hard at the delicate glands underneath the head. He twitched in his hand and thrust his hips up, silently pleading for more.

Shawn gladly lined them up, thrusting against one another, sweat and leaking semen easing the way. Lassiter moaned again, his lips skirting across Shawn's because of the building movement and pressure. Shawn arched again, bringing his knee up to slide against Lassiter's side and bring them closer together. The bruise on his chest was hurting from being stretched, but it was drowned out in the flood of pleasure coursing from the tip of his cock throughout his whole body. Shawn inhaled and came, spilling hot between them. He finished Lassiter off with a tight grip, listening to his harsh breathing. Lassiter was holding himself up over Shawn on shaking arms, and rolled over before his muscles failed.

They laid side by side, panting toward the ceiling, enjoying the afterglow. Lassiter could feel the semen on his stomach collecting into the little dip of his belly, and the rest very slowly dripping down his hip to soak into the sheet. It certainly wasn't pleasant, and a shower would be required very soon. Shawn was in the same boat, but lazier. He left quickly and got a warm wet towel to clean themselves off.

Shawn pulled his shirt down again. It had sweat soaked down both sides because it was bunched into his armpit, and it was rough against his suddenly sensitive erect nipples. He threw it off and pulled his boxers back on, half dressed in the cool room. Lassiter slid back into his shorts and stripped the semen stained sheet off before throwing it into the wash and returning to bed.

"Want to give it another go?" Shawn asked. Lassiter wondered how hard this relationship was going to be if Shawn was never satisfied with just one orgasm, but figured too much sex was better than none at all.

"You'll have to give me a few minutes," Lassiter admitted, not as young as he used to be.

Shawn grinned, jerking Lassiter's chain in good fun. "I'm good. I just wanted to see if you would agree, you dog, you."

"You're not as funny as you think you are," Lassiter said, no real scorn in his voice. He was even smiling. He joined Shawn in lying down on the rumpled bed, accomplishing nothing for another day.

"We did good, didn't we?" Shawn asked, unclear if he meant stopping Blaine, arresting all those people and saving the children, or even the sex. Lassiter answered him even though he didn't need to.

"Yeah. We did good." He kissed him on the forehead. "I'm hungry again. You want cereal or Chinese?"

END


End file.
